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By bequest of 

William Lukens Shoemaker 



THE 



COMPLETE POEMS 



OF 



W. M. THACKERAY 




NEW YORK 

WHITE, STOKES, AND ALLEN 

1886 



^U1 

t^ L 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



This edition of Mr. Thackeray s peents 'will be found 
to include all the verses thai are scattered throughout 
the author'' s various writings. 

QMX, 
W'. L. Shoemaker 
7 S '06 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Chronicle of the Drum, Part I., . . 7 

The Chronicle of the Drum, Paht II., . 14 
Abd-el-Kader at Toulon; or. The Caged 

Hawk, 23 

The King of Brentford's Testament, . . 26 
The White Squall. {Journey from Cornhill 

to Grand Caird)^ 34 

Peg of Limavaddy. {The Irish Sketch-Book), 39 

May- Day Ode, 44 

The Ballad or Bouillabaisse, ... 49 

The Mahogany Tree, 52 

The Yankee Volunteers, 54 

The Pen and the Album, . , . . . 56 

Mrs. Katherine's Lantern, .... S9 

Lucy's Birthday, . . . • . • . . . 61 

The Cane-Bottom'd Chair, .... 61 

PiSCATOK and PiSCATRIX, 64 

The Rose upon my Balcony. {Vaniiy Fair)^ 66 

RONSARD TO HIS MiSTRESS, 67 

At the Church Gate. {Pendennzs), . . 68 

The Age of Wisdom. {Rebecca and Rowena), . 69 

Sorrows of Werther, 70 

A Doe in the City, . ... . . , 71 

The Last of May, ...... 7a 

"Ah, Bleak and Barren was the Moor." 

{Vaniiy Fair)^ ..,.,. 73 



iv CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Song of the Violet. ( The A dventures of Philip), 74 

Fairy Days. ( The Fitz-Boodle Papers).^ . . 75 

Pocahontas. {_The Virginians), .... 77 

From Pocahontas. {The Virginians).^ . . 78 

The Legend of St. Sophia of Kioff, , , 78 

Titmarsh's Carmen Lilliense, . . . 103 
Jeams of Buckley Square— A Hkligy. {Diary 

of C. Jeames de la Pluche), .... 107 
Links upon my Sister's Portrait. {Diary of 

C. Jearnes de la Pluche), 109 

Little Billee, m 

The End of the Play. {Dr. Birch and his 

Young Friends), 113 

Vanitas Vanitatum, ii6 



LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY. 

VJnKV Makes my Heart to Thrill and Glow? 119 
The Ghazul, or Oriental Love-song : 

The Rocks, 121 

The Merry Bard, ...... 122 

The Caique, , 122 

My Nora, 123 

To Mary. {The Book of Snobs)^ .... 125 

Serenade. {The Paris Sketch-Book), , . 125 



FIFE GERMAN DITTIES. 

A Tragic Story, 127 

The Chaplet, ....... 128 

Thb King on the Tower, ..... 129 

To A very old Woman 130 

A Credo. {The Adventures of Philip), . , 131 



CONTENTS, 



PAGB 

FOUR IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER, 

Lh Rov d'Yvetot J,- 

The King of Yvetot, 134 

The Ring of I^rentfoed, .... 136 

Le Grenibr, J 5 

The Garret, ....... 139 

Roger- BoNTEMPs, j.q 

Jolly Jack, * . 142 



IMITA TION OF HORA CE. 

To HIS Serving Boy, j,- 

Ad MiNlSTRAM, J .- 



OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. 

The Knightly Guerdon, i^7 

The Almack's Adieu, j 3 

When the Gloom is on the Glen. {Sketches 

and Travels in London), .... 149 

The Red Flag. {Sketches and Travels in London-) 150 
Dear Jack. {Novels by Eminent Hands), . 151 

Commanders of the Faithful. {Rebecca and 

Rowena), ^^^ 

When Moonlike ore the Hazure Seas. (Z»/- 

ary 0/ C. yeames de la Pluche), . . 152 

King Canute. {Rebecca and Roivend), . . 153 
Friar's Song. {The Paris Sketch-Book\ . 158 

AtraCura. {Rebecca and Rowena), . . .159 
Requiescat. {Rebecca and Rowena), . . 159 

The Willow-Tree. {The Fitz-Boodle Papers), . 160 
The Willow-Tree— another version. {The 

Fitz- Boodle Papers)^ , . , , ,163 



CONTENTS, 



LYRA HIBERNICA. 

The Pimlico Pavilion, 165 

The Crystal Palace, ...... i63 

Molony's Lament, 173 

Mr. Molony's Account of the Ball given to 
THE Nepaulese Ambassador by the Pe- 
ninsular AND Oriental Comfany, . . 176 
The Battle of Limerick, .... 178 
Larry O'Toole. {Novels by Eminent Hands), . 182 
The Rose op Flora. {Memoirs 0/ Barry Lyn- 
don, Esq.), 183 

The Last Irish Grievance, .... 184 



THE BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

The Wofle New Ballad of Jane Roney and 

Mary Brown, 186 

Thh Three Christmas Waits, .... i8g 

Lines on a late Hospicious Ewent, . , . 194 

The Ballad of Eliza Davis, . , . 198 

Damages, Two Hundred Pounds, . . .20a 

The Knight and the Lady, .... 206 

Jacod Homnium's Hoss, 208 

The Speculators, 213 

A Woeful New Ballad of the Protestant 

Conspiracy to take the Pope's Life, . 215 
The Lamentable Ballad of the Foundling of 

Shoreditch, 219 

The Organ Boy's Appeal 224 



BALLADS, 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 

PART I. 

At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers, 

Whoever will choose to repair, 
Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors 

May haply fali in with old Pierre. 
On the sunshiny bench of a tavern 

He sits and he prates of old wars, 
And moistens his pipe of tobacco 

With a drink that is named after Mars. 

The beer makes his tongue run the quicker, 

And as long as his tap never fails 
Thus over his favorite liquor 

Old Peter will tell his old tales. 
Says he, " In my life's ninety summers 

Strange changes and chances I've secn,-= 
So here's to all gentlemen drummers 

That ever have thumped on a skin. 

* Brought up in the art military 

For four generations we are ; 
My ancestors drumm'd for King Harry, 

The Huguenot lad of Navarre. 
And as each man in life has his station 

According as Fortune may fix, 
While Conde was v/aving the baton, 

My grandsire was trolling the sticks. 



I BALLADS. 

' ' Ah ! those were the days for commanders ! 

What glories my grandfather won, 
Ere bigots, and lackeys, and panders 

The fortunes of France had undone ! 
In Germany, Flanders, and Holland, — 

What foeman resisted us then ? 
No ; my grandsire was ever victorious, 

My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne. 

** He died : and our noble battalions 

The jade fickle Fortune forsook ; 
And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance, 

The victoty lay with Malbrook. 
The news it was brought to King Louis ; 

Corbleu ! how his Majesty swore 
When he heard they had taken my grandsire 

And twelve thousand gentlemen more. 

*' At Naraur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet 

Were we posted, on plain or in trench : 
Malbrook only need to attack it 

And away from him scamper'd we French. 
Cheer up ! 'tis no use to be glum, boys, — 

'Tis written, since fighting begun. 
That sometimes we fight and we conquer. 

And sometimes we fight and we run. 

*' To fight and to run was our fate : 

Our fortune and fame had departed. 
And so perish'd Louis the Great, — 

Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted. 
His coffin they pelted with mud. 

His body they tried to lay hands on ; 
And so having buried King Louis 

They loyally served his great-grandson. 

" God save the beloved King Louis ! 
(For so he was nicknamed by some,) 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 9 

And now came my father to do his 
King's orders and beat on the drum. 

My grandsire was dead, but his bones 
Must have shaken, I'm certain, for joy, 

To hear daddy drumming the English 
From the meadows of famed Fontenoy. 

" So well did he drum in that battle 

That the enemy show'd us their backs ; 
Corbleu ! it was pleasant to rattle 

The sticks and to follow old Saxe ! 
We next had Soubise as a leader. 

And as luck hath its changes and fits, 
At Rosbach, in spite of dad's drumming, 

'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz. 

" And now daddy cross'd the Atlantic, 

To drum for Montcalm and his men ; 
Morbleu ! but it makes a man frantic 

To think we were beaten again ! 
My daddy he cross'd the wide ocean, 

My mother brought me on her neck, 
And we came in the year fifty-seven 

To guard the good town of Quebec. 

" In the year fifty-nine came the Britons, — 

Full well I remember the day, — 
They knocked at our gates for admittance, 

Their vessels were moor'd in our bay. 
Says our general, ' Drive me yon red-coats 

Away to the sea whence they come ! ' 
So we march'd against Wolfe and his bull-dogs, 

We marched at the sound of the drum. 

* ' I think I can see my poor mammy 
With me in her hand as she waits, 
And our regiment, slowly retreating, 
Pours back through the citadel gates. 



lO BALLADS. 

Dear mammy she looks in their faces, 
And asks if her husband is come ? 

— He is lying all cold on glacis, 

And will never more beat on the drum. 

*' Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys ! 

He died like a soldier in glory ; 
Here's a glass to the health of all drum-boys* 

And now I'll commence my own stoiy. 
Once more did we cross the salt ocean. 

We came in the year eighty-one ; 
And the wrongs of my father the drummer 

Were avenged by the drummer his son. 

" In Chesapeake Bay we were landed. 

In vain strove the British to pass : 
Rochambeau our armies commanded. 

Our ships they were led by De (Jrasse. 
Morbleu ! how 1 rattled the drumsticks 

The day we march'd into Yorktown ; 
Ten thousand of beef-eating British 

Their weapons we caused to lay down. 

* ' Then homewards returning victorious, 

In peace to our country we came, 
And weie thanked for our glorious actions 

By Louis, Sixteenth of the nam.e. 
Wliat drummer on earth could be prouder 

Than I, while I drumm'd at Versailles 
To the lovely court ladies in powder, 

And lappets, and long satin-tails? 

" The princes that day pass'd before us, 
Our countrymen's glory and hope ; 

Monsieur, who was learned in Horace, 
D'Artois, who could dance the tight-rope 

One night we kept guard for the Queen 
At her Majesty's opera-box, 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. II 

While the King, that majestical monarch, 
Sat filing at home at his locks. 

"Yes, I drumm'd for the fair Antoinette, 

And so smiling she look'd and so tender, 
That our officers, privates, and drummers. 

All vow'd they would die to defend her. 
But she cared not for us honest fellows. 

Who fought and who bled in her wars, 
She sneer'd at our gallant Rochambcau, 

And turned Lafayette out of doors. 

" Ventrebleu ! then I swore a great oath, 

No more to such tyrants to kneel ; 
And so, just to keep up my drumming, 

One day I drumm'd down the Bastille, 
Ho, landlord ! a stoup of fresh wine. 

Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try, 
And drink to the year eighty-nine 

And the glorious fourth of July ! 

' ' Then bravely our cannon it thunder 'd 

As onwards our patriots bore. 
Our enemies were but a hundred, 

And we twenty thousand or more. 
They carried the news to King Louis. 

He heard it as calm as you please, 
And, like a majestical monarch. 

Kept filing his locks and his keys. 

' ' We show'd our republican courage. 

We storm'd and we broke the great gate in, 
And we murder'd the insolent governor 

For daring to keep us a-waiting. 
Lambesc and his squadrons stood by : 

They never stirr'd finger or thumb. 
The saucy aristocrats trembled 

As tlicy heard the republican drum. 



1 2 BALLADS. 

*' Hun-ah ! what a storm was a-brewing ! 

The day of our vengeance was come ! 
Through scenes of what carnage and ruin 

Did [ beat on the patriot drum ! 
Let's driniv to the famed tenth of August : 

At midnight I beat the tattoo, 
And woke up the pikemen of Paris 

To follow the bold Barbaroux. 

" With pikes, and with shouts, and with torches 

March'd onwards our dusty battalions, 
And we girt the tall castle of Louis, 

A million of tatterdemalions ! 
We storm'd the fair gardens where tower'd 

The walls of his heritage splendid. 
Ah, shame on him, craven and coward, 

That had not the heart to defend it ! 

*' With the crown of his sires on his head. 

His nobles and knights by his side, 
At the foot of his ancestors' palace 

'Twere easy, methinks, to have died. 
But no : when we burst through his barriers, 

Mid heaps of the dying and dead. 
In vain through the chambers we sought him— 

He had turn'd like a craven and fled. 



' You all know the Place de la Concorde ? 

'Tis hard by the Tuileries wall. 
Mid terraces, fountains, and statues, 

There rises an obelisk tall. 
There rises an obelisk tall. 

All garnish'd and gilded the base is : 
'Tis surely the gayest of all 

Oar lx«utiful city's gay places. 



THE CHRONICLE OP THE DRUM. 1 3 

" Around it are gardens and flowers, 

And the Cities of France on their thrones, 
Each crown'd with his circlet of flowers 

Sits watching this biggest of stones ! 
I love to go sit in the sun there, 

The flowers and fountains to see. 
And to think of the deeds that were done there 

In the glorious year ninety-three. 

" 'Twas here stood the Altar of Freedom ; 

And though neither marble nor gilding 
Was used in those days to adorn 

Our simple republican building, 
Corbleu ! but the MfeRE guillotine 

Cared little for splendour or show, 
So you gave her an axe and a beam, 

And a plank and a basket or so. 

"Awful, and proud, and erect. 

Here sat our republican goddess. 
Each morning her table we deck'd 

With dainty aristocrats' bodies. 
The people each day flocked around 

As she sat at her meat and her wine : 
'Twas always the use of our nation 

To witness the sovereign dine. 

" Young virgins with fair golden tresses, 

Old silver-hair'd prelates and priests, 
Dukes, marquises, barons, princesses. 

Were splendidly served at her feasts. 
Ventrebleu ! but we pamper'd our ogress 

With the best that our nation could bring. 
And dainty she grew in her progress, 

And called for the head of a King ! 

' ' She called for the blood of our King, 

And straight from his prison we drew him ; 



14 BALLADS. 

And to her with shouting we led him, 

And took him, and bound him, and slew him. 

' The Monarchs of Europe against me 
Have plotted a godless alliance : 

I'll fling them the head of King Louis,* 
She said, ' as my gage of defiance.* 

'* I see him as now, for a moment. 

Away from his gaolers he broke ; 
And stood at the foot of the scaffold. 

And linger'd, and fain would have spoke. 
' IIo, drummer ! quick, silence yon Capet.' 

Says Santerre, ' with a beat of your drum.' 
Lustily then did I tap it, 

And the son of Saint Louis was dumb. 



PART II. 

The glorious days of September 

Saw many aristocrats fall : 
*Twas then that our pikes drank the blood 

In the beautiful breast of Lamballe, 
Pardi, 'twas a beautiful lady ! 

I seldom have look'd on her like ; 
And I drumm'd for a gallant procession. 

That march'd with her head on a pike. 

Let's show the pale head to the Queen, 
We said — she'll remember it well. 

She looked from the bars of her prison. 
And shrieked as she saw it, and fell. 

We set up a shout at her screaming, 
We laugh'd at the fright she had shown 

At the sight of the head of her minion- 
How she'd tremble to part with her own ! 



Tim CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 15 

We had taken the head of King Capet, 

We called for the blood of his wife ; 
Undaunted she came to the scaffold, 

And bared her fair neck to the knife. 
As she felt the foul fingers that touch'd her. 

She shrank, but she deigned not to speak : 
She look'd with a royal disdain, 

And died with a blush on her cheek 1 

'Twas thus that our country was saved ; 

So told us the safety committee, 
But psha ! I've the heart of a soldier, 

All gentleness, mercy, and pity. 
I loath'd to assist at such deeds, 

And my drum beat its loudest of tunes 
As we offered to justice offended 

I'he blood of the bloody tribunes. 

Away with such foul recollections ! 

No more of the axe and the block ; 
I saw the last fight of the sections, 

As they fell 'neath our guns at Saint Rock. 
Young BoMAPARTE led us that day ; 

When he sought the Italian frontier, 
I follow'd the gallant young captain, 

I follow'd him many a long year. 

We came to an army in rags, 

Our general was but a boy 
When we first saw the Austrain flags 

Flaunt proud in the fields of Savoy. 
In the glorious year ninety-six. 

We march'd to the banks of the Po ; 
I carried my drum and my sticks. 

And we laid the proud Austrian low. 

In triumph we enter'd Milan, 
We seized on the Mantuan keys ; 



l6 BALLADS. 

The troops of the Emperor ran, 

And the Pope he fell down on hb knees.' 
Pierre's comrades here call'd a fresh bottle, 

And clubbing together their wealth. 
They drank to the Army of Italy, 

And General Bonaparte's health. 

The drummer now bared his old breast, 

And show'd us a plenty of scars, 
Rude presents that Fortune had made him 

In fifty victorious wars. 
' This came when I follow'd bold Kleber — 

'Twas shot by a Mameluke gun ; 
And this from an Austrian sabre. 

When the field of Marengo was won. 

" My forehead has m.any deep furrows, 

But this is the deepest of all : 
A Brunswicker made it at Jena, 

Beside the fair river of Saal. 
This cross, 'twas the Emperor gave it ; 

(God bless him !) it covers a blow ; 
I had it at Austerlitz fight. 

As I beat on my drum in the snow. 

" 'Twas thus that we conquer'd and fought ; 

But wherefore continue the story ? 
There's never a baby in France 

But has heard of our chief and our glory, 
But has heard of our chief and our fame. 

His sorrows and triumphs can tell, 
How bravely Napoleon conquer'd, 

How bravely and sadly he fell. 

" It makes my old heart to beat higher. 
To think of the deeds that I saw ; 
I follow'd bold Ney through the fire, 
And charged at the side of JNIurat." 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. I? 

And so did old Peter continue 
His story of twenty brave years ; 

His audience follow'd with comments — 
Rude comments of curses and tears. 

He told how the Prussians in vain 

Had died in defence of their land ; 
His audience laugh'd at the story, 

And vowed that their captain was grand ! 
He had fought the red English, he said, 

In many a battle of Spain : 
They cursed the red English, and prayed 

To meet them and fight them again. 

He told them how Russia was lost, 

Had winter not driven them back ; 
And his company cursed the quick frost 

xA.nd doubly they cursed the Cossack. 
He told how the stranger arrived ; 

They wept at the tale of disgrace ; 
And they long'd but for one battle more, 

The stain of their shame to efface. 

" Our country their hordes overrun, 

We fled to the fields of Champagne, 
And fought them, though twenty to one. 

And beat them again and again I 
Our warrior was conquer'd at last ; 

They bade him his crown to resign ; 
To fate and his country he yielded 

The rights of himself and his line. 

" He came, and among us he stood, 

Around him we press'd in a throng ; 
We could not regard him for weeping, 

Who had led us and loved us so long. 
* I have led you for twenty long years,' 
Napoleon said ere he went ; 



1 8 . BALLADS. 

* Wherever was honor I found yon, 
And with you, my sons, am content ! 

*' ' Though Europe against me was armed, 
Your chiefs and my people are true ; 
1 still might liave struggled with fortune, 
And baffled all Europe with you. 

'• * But France would have suffer'd the while, 
'Tis best that I suffer alone ; 
I go to my place of exile, 

To write of the deeds we have done. 

*' * Be true to the king that they give you. 
We may not embrace ere we part ; 
But, General, reach me your hand, 
And press me, I pray, to your heart.* 

" He call'd for our battle standard ; 

One kiss to the eagle he gave. 
* Dear eagle ! ' he said, ' may this kiss 

Long sound in the hearts of the brave ! ' 
'Twas thus that Napoleon left us ; 

Our people were weeping and mute, 
As he passed through the lines of his guard, 

And our drums beat the notes of salute. 



" I look'd when the drumming was o'er, 

I look'd, but our hero was gone ; 
We were destined to see him once more, 

When we fought on the Mount of St. John. 
The Emperor rode through our files ; 

'Twas June, and a fair Sunday morn, 
The lines of our warriors for miles 

Stretch 'd wide through the Waterloo corn. 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 19 

' In thousands we stood on the plain, 

The red-coats were crowning the height ; 
' Go scatter yon EngUsh,' he said ; 

' We'll sup, lads, al Brussels to-night.' 
We answer'd his voice with a shout ; 
Our eagles were bright in the sun ; 
Our drums and our cannon spoke out. 
And the thundering battle begun. 

"One charge to another succeeds, 

Like waves that a hurricane bears ; 
All day do our galloping steeds 

Dash fierce on the enemy's squares. 
At noon we began the fell onset : 

We charged up the Englishmen's hill ; 
And madly we charged it at sunset-- 

His banners were floating there still. 

" — Go to ! I will tell you no more ; 

You know how the battle was lost. 
Ho ! fetch me a beaker of wine. 

And, comrades, I'll give you a toast. 
I'll give you a curse on all traitors, 

Who plotted our Emperor's ruin ; 
And a curse on those red-coated English, 

Whose bayonets helped our undoing. 

" A curse on those British assassins, 

Who order'd the slaughter of Ney ; 
A curse on Sir Hudson, who tortured 

The life of our hero away. 
A curse on all Russians— I hate them— 

On all Prussian and Austrian fry ; 
And oh 1 but I pray we may meet them» 

And fight them again ere I die." 

'Twas thus old Peter did conclude 
His chronicle with curses fit. 



BALLADS. 

He spoke the tale in accents rude, 
In ruder verse I copied it. 

Perhaps the tale a moral bears, 
(All tales in time to this must come,) 

The story of two hundred years 
Writ on the parchment of a drum. 

What Peter told with drum and stick, 
Is endless theme for poet's pen : 

Is found in endless quartos thick, 
Enormous books by learned men. 

And ever since historian writ, 

And ever since a bard could sing, 

Doth each exalt with all his wit 
The noble art of murdering. 

We love to read the glorious page, 
How bold Achilles killed his foe ; 

And Turnus, felled by Trojans' rage, 
Went howling to the shades below. 

How Godfrey led his red-cross knights, 
How mad Orlando slash'd and slew ; 

There's not a single bard that writes 
But doth the glorious theme renew. 

And while, in fashion picturesque, 
The poet rhymes of blood and blows, 

The grave historian at his desk 

Describes the same in classic prose. 

Go read the works of Reverend Coxe, 
You'll duly see recorded there 

The history of the self-same knocks 

Here roughly suag by Drummer Pierre, 



THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. 2 1 

Of battles fierce and warriors big, 
He writes in phrases dull and slow. 

And waves his cauliflower wig', 

And shouts "Saint George for Marlboro w ! " 

Take Doctor Soutiiey from the shelf, 

An LL.D., — a peaceful man ; 
Good Lord, how doth he plume himself 

Because we beat the Corsican ! 

From first to last his page is filled 

With stirring tales how blows w^-e strucko 

He shows how we the Frenchmen kill'd, 
And praises God for our good luck. 

Some hints, 'tis true, of politics 

The doctors give and statesman's art : 

Pierre only bangs his drum and sticks. 
And understands the bloody part. 

He cares not what the cause may be. 
He is not nice for wrong and right ; 

But show him where's the enemy, 
He only asks to drum and fight. 

They bid him fight, — perhaps he wins ; 

And when he tells the story o'er. 
The honest savage brags and grins, 

And only longs to fight once more. 

But luck rnay change, and valor fail. 
Our drummer, Peter, meet reverse, 

And witl^ a moral points his tale — 
The end of all such tales — a curse. 

Last year, my love, it was my hap 
Behind a grenadier to be, 



22 BALLADS. 

And, but he v/ore a hairy cap, 

No taller man, methinks, than me. 

Prince Albert and the Queen, Clod wot, 
(Be blessings on the glorious pair !) 

Before us passed. I saw them not — 
I only saw a cap of hair. 

Your orthodox historian puts 

In foremost rank the soldier thus. 

The red-coat bully in his boots, 

That hides the march of men from us. 

lie puts them there in foremost rank, 
You wonder at his cap of hair : 

You hear his sabre's cursed clank, 
His spurs are jingling everywhere. 

Go to ! I hate him and his trade : 
Who bade us so to cringe and bend 

And all God's peaceful people made 
To such as him subservient ? 

Tell me what find we to admire 
In epaulets and scarlet coats — 

In men, because they load and fire, 
And know the art of cutting throats ? 



Ah, gentle, tender lady mine ! 

The winter wind blows cold and shrill 
Come, fill me one more glass of wine. 

And give the silly fools their will. 

And what care we for war and wrack, 
How kings and heroes rise and falP 



ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON. 23 

Look yonder,* in his coflin black 
There lies the greatest of them all ! 

To pluck him down, and keep him up, 
Died many million human souls. — 

'Tis twelve o'clock and time to sup ; 
Bid Mary heap the fire with coals. 

He captured many thousand guns ; 

He wrote " The Great" before his name ; 
And dying, only left his sons 

The recollection of his shame. 

Though more than half the world was his. 
He died without a rood his own ; 

And borrow'd from his enemies 
Six foot of ground to lie upon. 

He fought a thousand glorious wars. 

And more than half the world was his, 
And somewhere now, in yonder stars, 
Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is. 
1841. 



ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON. 

OR, THE CAGED HAWK. 

No more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of 

desert life for thee ; 
No more across the sultry sands shalt thou go 

swooping free : 

* This ballad was written at Paris at the time of the 
Second Funeral of Napoleon. 



24 BALLADS, 

Blunt idle talons, idle beak, with spurning- of thy 

chain, 
Shatter against thy cage the wing thou ne'er 

may'st spread again. 

Long, sitting by tlieir watchfires, shall the Ka- 

byles tell the tale 
Of thy dash from Ben Halifa on the fat Metidja 

vale ; 
How thou swept'st the desert over, bearing down 

the wild El Riff, 
From eastern Beni Salah to western Ouad Shelif ; 

How thy white burnous went streaming, like the 

storm-rack o'er the sea. 
When thou rodest in the vanward of the Moorish 

chivalry ; 
How thy razzia was a whirlwind, thy onset a 

simoom, 
How thy sword-sweep was the lightning, dealing 

death from out the gloom ! 

Nor less quick to slay in battle than in peace to 
spare and save. 

Of brave men wisest councillor, of wise council- 
lors most brave ; 

How the eye that flashed destruction could beam 
gentleness and love, 
V lion ir 
dove ! 

Availed not or steel or shot 'gainst that charmed 

life secure. 
Till cunning France, in last resource, tossed up 

the golden lure ; 
And the carrion buzzards round him stooped, 

faithless, to the cast, 



ABD-EL-KADER AT TOULON, 25 

And the wild hawk of the desert is caught and 
caged at last. 

Weep, maidens of Zerifah, above the laden loom ! 
Scar, chieftains of Al Elmah, your cheeks in grief 

and gloom ! 
Sons of the Beni Snazam, throw down the useless 

lance, 
And stoop your necks and bare your backs to 

yoke and scourge of France ! 

'Twas not in fight they bore him down ; he never 

cried avian ; 
He never sank his sword before the Prince of 

Franghistan ; 
But with traitors all around him, his star upon 

the wane. 
He heard the voice of Allah, and he would not 

strive in vain. 

They gave him what he asked them ; from king 

to king he spake. 
As one that plighted word and seal not knoweth 

how to break : 
*' Let me pass from out my deserts, be't mine 

own choice where to go ; 
I brook no fettered life to live, a captive and a 

show." 

And they promised, and he trusted them, and 

proud and calm he came. 
Upon his black mare riding, girt with his sword 

of fame. 
Good steed, good sword, he rendered both unto 

the Frankish throng ; 
He knew them false and fickle — but a Prince's 

word is strong. 



2 6 BALLADS. 

How have they kept their promise ? Turned they 

the vessel's prow 
Unto Acre, Alexandria, as they have sworn e'en 

now ? 
Not so : from Oran northwards the white sails 

gleam and glance, 
And the wild hawk of the desert is borne away to 

France ! 

Where Toulon's white-walled lazaret looks south- 
ward o'er the wave, 

Sits he that trusted in the word a son of Louis 
gave. 

O noble faith of noble heart ! And was the warn- 
ing vain, 

The text writ by the Bourbon in the blurred 
black book of Spain ? 

They have need of thee to gaze on, they have 
need of thee to grace 

The triumph of the Prince, to gild the pinchbeck 
of their race. 

Words are but wind, conditions must be con- 
strued by Guiz.oT ; 

Dash out thy heart, thou desert hawk, ere thou 
art made a show ! 



THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTA- 
MENT. 



The noble King of Brentford 
Was old and very sick, 

He summon'd his physicians 
To wait upon him quick ; 



KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. 2 J 

They stepp'd into their coaches 
And brought their best physick. 

They cramm'd their gracious master 

With potion and with pill ; 
They drench'd him and they bled him % 

They could not cure his ill, 
" Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer ; 

I'd better make my will." 

The monarch's royal mandate 

The lawyer did obey : 
The thought of six-and-eight-pence 

Did make his heart full gay. 
" What is't," says he, "your Majesty 

Would wish of me to-day ?" 

" The doctors have belabor'd me 

With potion and with pill : 
My hours of life are counted, 

man of tape and quill ! 

Sit down and mend a pen or two ; 

1 want to make my will. 

"O'er all the land of Brentford 

I'm lord, and eke of Kew : 
I've three-per-cents and five-per-cents \ 

My debts are but a few ; 
And to inherit after me 

I have but children two. 

'' Prince Thomas is my eldest son ; 

A sober prince is he. 
And from the day we breech 'd him 

Till now — he's twenty-three — 
He never caused disquiet 

To his poor mamma or me. 



28 BALLADS. 

" At school they never flogg'd him ; 

At college, though not fast, 
Yet his little- go and great-go 

He creditably pass'd, 
And made his year's allowance 

For eighteen months to last. 

*' He never owed a shilling, 
Went never drunk to bed, 

He has not two ideas 

Within his honest head — 

In all respects he differs 

From my second son, Prince Ned. 

" When Tom has half his income 
Laid by at the year's end, 

Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver 
That rightly he may spend, 

But sponges on a tradesman. 
Or borrows from a friend. 

** While Tom his legal studies 

Most soberly pursues, 
Poor Ned must pass his mornings 

A-dawdling with the Muse : 
While Tom frequents his banker, 

Young Ned frequents the Jews. 

*' Ned drives about in buggies, 
Tom sometimes takes a 'bus ; 

Ah, cruel fate, v/hy made you 
My children differ thus ? 

Why make of Tom a dullard, 
And Ned a genius ?" 

" You'll cut him with a shilling,'* 
Exclaimed the man of wits ; 



KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. 29 

" I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, 

" Sir Lawyer, as befits. 
And portion both their fortunes 

Unto tlieir several wits." 

"Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said, 
" On your commands I wait." 

" Be silent, Sir," says Brentford, 
" A plague upon your prate ! 

Come take your pen and paper. 
And write as I dictate." 

The will as Brentford spoke it 
Was writ and signed and closed ; 

He bade the lawyer leave him. 
And tum'd him round and dozed ; 

And next week in the churchyard 
The good old King reposed. 

Tom, dressed in crape and hatband. 

Of mourners was the chief ; 
In bitter self-upraidings 

Poor Edward showed his grief : 
Tom hid his fat v/hite countenance 

In his pocket-handkerchief. 

Ned's eyes were full of weeping, 

He falter'd in his walk ; 
Tom never shed a tear. 

But onwards he did stalk. 
As pompous, black, and solemn 

As any catafalque. 

And when the bones of Brentford— 

That gentle king and just — 
\Vith bell and book and candle 

"\Vere duly laid in dust, 



30 BALLADS. 

" Now, gentlemen," says Thoixuis, 
" Let business be discussed. 

*' When late our sire beloved 

Was taken deadly ill, 
Sir Lawyer, you attended him 

(I mean to tax your bill) ; 
And, as you signed and wrote it» 

I prithee read the will." 

The lawyer wiped his spectacles, 
And drew the parchment out ; 

And all the Brentford family 
Sat eager round about : 

Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, 
But Tom had ne'er a doubt. 

" My son, as I make ready 
To seek my last long home, 

Some cares I had for Neddy, 
But none for thee, my Tom : 

Sobriety and order 

You ne'er departed from. 

"Ned hath a brilliant genius, 
And thou a plodding brain ; 

On thee I think with pleasure, 
On him with doubt and pain." 

("You see, good Ned," says Thomas, 
" What he thought about us twain.") 

" Though small was your allowance, 

You saved a little store ; 
And those who save a little 

Shall get a plenty more." 
As the lawyer read this compliment, 

Tom's e^'es were running o'er. 



KIXG OF DRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. 

'* The tortoise and the hare, Tom, 

Set out at each his pace ; 
The hare it was the fleeter. 

The tortoise won the race ; 
And since the world's beginning 

Tliis ever was the case. 

" Ned's genius, blithe and singing, 
Steps gaily o'er the ground ; 

As steadily you trudge it, 
He clears it with a bound ; 

But dulness has stout legs, Tom, 
And wind that's wondrous sound. 

** O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, 
You pass with plodding feet ; 

You heed not one nor t'other. 
But onwards go your beat ; 

While genius stops to loiter 
With all that he may meet ; 

* ' And ever as he wanders. 

Will have a pretext fine 
For sleeping in the morning, 

Or loitering to dine, 
Or dozing in the shade. 

Or basking in the shine. 

" Your little steady eyes, Tom, 
Though not so bright as those 

That restless round about him 
His flashing genius throws, 

Are excellently suited 

To look before your nose. 

** Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers 
It placed before your eyes ; 



32 BALLADS. 

The stupidest are strongest, 

The witty are not wise ; 
Oh, bless your good stupidity ! 

It is your dearest prize. 

" And though my lands are wide. 

And plenty is my gold 
Still better gifts from Nature, 

My Thomas, do you hold — 
A brain that's thick and heavy, 

A heart that's dull and cold. 

**Too dull to feel depression. 

Too hard to heed distress, 
Too cold to yield to passion 

Or silly tenderness. 
March on — your road is open 

To wealth, Tom, and success. 

" Ned sinneth in extravagance, 

And you in greedy lust." 
("I' faith," says Ned, "our father 

Is less polite than just.") 
" In you, son Tom, I've confidence, 

But Ned I cannot trust." 

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds, 

My lands and tenements, 
My parks, my farms, and orchards, 

My houses and my rents, 
My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock. 

My five and three per cents, 

" I leave to you, my Thomas" — 
(" What, all ?" poor Edward said. 

" Well, well, I should have spent them, 
And Tom's a prudent head ") — 



KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT, 33 

*' I leave to you, my Thomas, — 
To you IN TRUST for Ned." 

The wrath and consternation 

What poet e'er could trace 
That at this fatal passage 

Came o'er Prince Tom his face ; 
The wonder of the company, 

And honest Ned's amaze ? 

" 'Tis surely some mistake," 

Good-naturedly cries Ned ; 
The lawyer answered gravely, 

'* 'Tis even as I said ; 
'Twas thus his gracious Majesty 

Ordain'd on his death-bed. 

" See, here the will is witness'd, 

And here's his autograph." 
"In truth, our father's writing," 

Says Edward, with a laugh ; 
** But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom ] 

We'll share it half and half." 

*' Alas ! my kind young gentleman, 

This sharing cannot be ; 
'Tis written in the testament 

That Brentford spoke to me, 
' I do forbid Prince Ned to give. 

Prince Tom a halfpenny. 

" ' He hath a store of money. 
But ne'er was known to lend it ; 

He never helped his brother ; 
The poor he ne'er befriended ; 

He hath no need of property 
Who knows not how to spend it. 



34 BALLADS. 

" ' Poor Edv/ard knows but how to spend, 

And thrifty Tom to hoard ; 
Let Thomas be the steward then, 
And Edward be the lord ; 
, And as the honest laborer 

Is worthy his reward, '• 

" ' I pray Prince Ned, my second son, 

And my successor dear, 
To pay to his intendant 

Five hundred pounds a year ; 
And to think of his old father, 

And live and make good cheer.' " 

Such was old Brentford's honest testament, 
He did devise his moneys for the best, 
And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest. 

Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent \ 
But his good sire was wrong, it is confess'd, 

To say his son, young Thomas, never lent. 
He did. Young Thomas lent at interest, 

And nobly took his twenty-five per cent. 

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured 
O'erChiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew, 

But of extravagance he ne'er was cured. 

And when both died, as mortal men will do, 

'Twas commonly reported that the steward 
Was very much the richer of the two. 



THE WHITE SQUALL, 

On deck, beneath the av/ning, 
I dozing lay and yavv'ning ; 
It was the gray of dav/ning, 
Ere yet the sun arose ; 



THE WHITE SQUALL. 35 

And above the funnel's roaring. 
And the fitful whids deploring, 
I heard the cabin snoring 

With universal nose. 
I could hear th'i passengers snorting, 
I envied their disporting — 
Vainly I was courting 

The pleasure of a doze ! 

vSo I lay, and wondered why light 
Came not, and watched the twilight, 
And the glimmer of the skylight, 

That shot across the deck, 
And the binnacle pale and steady, 
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye, 
And the sparks in fiery eddy 

That whirled from the chimney neck. 
In our jovial floating prison 
There was sleep from fore to mizzen, 
And never a star had risen 

The hazy sky to speck. 

Strange company we harbored ; 
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard. 
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered — 

Jews black, and brown, and gray ; 
With terror it would seize ye. 
And make your souls uneasy, 
To see those Rabbis greasy, 

W' ho did nought but scratch and pray : 
Their dirty children puking — 
Their dirty saucepans cooking — 
Their dirty fingers hooking 

Their swarming fleas away. 

To starboard, Turks and Greeks were — 
Whiskered and brown their cheeks were — 



36 BALLADS. 

Enormous wide their brecks were^ 

Their pipes did puff alway ; 
Each on his mat allotted 
In silence smoked and squatted, 
Whilst round their children trotted 

In pretty, pleasant play. 
He can't but smile who traces 
The smiles on those brown faces, 
And the pretty prattling graces 
Of those small heathens gay. 

And so the hours kept tolling, 
And through the ocean rolling 
Went the brave " Iberia" bowling 
Before the break of day — 

When A SQUALL, upon a sudden, 
Came o'er the waters scudding ; 
And the clouds began to gather, 
And the sea was lashed to lather, 
And the lowering thunder grumbled, 
And the lightning jumped and tumbled, 
And the ship, and all the ocean, 
Woke up in wild commotion. 
Then the wind set up a howling. 
And the poodle dog a yowling. 
And the cocks began a crowing, 
And the old cow raised a lowing. 
As she heard the tempest blowing ; 
And fowls and geese did cackle, 
And the cordage and the tackle 
Began to shriek and cackle ; 
And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, 
And down the deck in runnels ; 
And the rushing water soaks all. 
From the seamen in the fo'ksal 
To the stokers whose black faces 



THE WniTIS SQUALL. 37 

Peer out of their bed places ; 

And the captain he was bawling, 

And the sailors pulling, hauling, 

And the quarter-deck tarpauling 

Was shivered in the squalling ; 

And the passengers awaken, 

Most pitifully shaken ; 

And the steward jumps up, and hastens 

For the necessary basins. 

Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, 

And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered. 

As the plunging waters met them 

And splashed and overset them ; 

And they call in their emergence 

Upon countless saints and virgins ; 

And their marrowbones are bended, 

And they think the world is ended. 

And the Turkish women for'ard 

Were frightened and behorror'd ; 

And shrieking and bewildering. 

The mothers clutched their children ; 

The men sang " Allah ! Illah ! 

Mashallah Bismillah !" 

As the warring waters doused them, 

And splashed them and soused them, 

And they called upon the Prophet, 

And thought but little of it. 

Then all the fleas in Jewry 

Jumped up and bit like fury ; 

And the progeny of Jacob 

Did on the main-deck Vv^ake up 

(I wot those greasy Rabbins 

Would never pay for cabins) ; 

And each man moaned and jabbered in 

I lis filthy Jev/ish gaberdine, 



38 BALLADS, 

In woe and lamentation. 

And howling- consternation. 

And the splashing water drenches 

Their dirty brats and wenches ; 

And they crawl from bales and benches 

In a hundred thousand stenches. 

This was the White Squall famous, 

Which latterly o'ercame us, 

And which all will well remember 

On the 28th September ; 

When a Prussian captain of I.ancers 

(Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) 

Came on the deck astonished, 

By that wild squall admonished, 

And wondering cried, " Potztausend ! 

Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend !" 

And looked at Captain Lewis, 

Who calmly stood and blew his 

Cigar in all the bustle. 

And scorned the tempest's tussle. 

And oft we've thought thereafter 

How he beat the storm to laughter ; 

For v/ell he knew his vessel 

With that vain wind could wrestle ; 

And when a wreck we thought her, 

And doomed ourselves to slaughter, 

How gaily he fought her, 

And though the hubbub brought her, 

And as the tempest caught her, 

Cried, "George! some brandy-ani*- 

WATER !" 

And when, its force expended. 
The harmless storm was ended, 
And as the sunrise splendid 
Came blushing o'er the sea. 



PEG OF LIMAVADDY. 39 

I thought, as day was breaking, 
My little girls were waking, 
And smiling, and making 
A p-ayer at home for me. 

1844. 



TEG OF LIMAVADDY. 

Riding from Coleraine 

(Famed for lovely Kitty), 
Came a Cockney bound 

Unto Derry city ; 
Weary was his soul. 

Shivering and sad, he 
Bumped along the road 

Leads to Limavaddy. 

Mountains stretch'd around, 

Gloomy was their tinting, 
And the horse's hoofs 

Made a dismal dinting ; 
Wind upon the heath 

Howling was and piping, 
On the heath and bog, 

Black with many a snipe in. 
Mid the bogs of black, 

Silver pools were flashing, 
Crovv'S upon their sides 

Becking were and splashing^ 
Cockney on the car 

Closer folds his plaidy^ 
Grumbling at the road 

Leads to Limavaddy. 



40 BALLADS. 

Through the crashing woods 

Autumn brawl'd and bhistered. 
Tossing round about 

Leaves the hue of mustard ; 
Yonder lay Lough Foyle, 

Which a storm was whipping, 
Covering with the mist 

Lake, and shores, and shipping. 
Up and dov/n the hill 

(Nothing could be bolder), 
Horse went with a raw 

Bleeding on his shoulder. 
" Where are horses changed ?" 

Said I to the laddy 
Driving on the box : 

"Sir, at Limavaddy." 

Limavaddy inn's 

But a humble bait-house, 
Where you may procure 

Whiskey and potatoes ; 
Landlord at the door 

Gives a smiling welcome 
To the shivering wights 

Who to this hotel come. 
Landlady within 

Sits and knits a stocking, 
With a wary foot 

Baby's cradle rocking. 

To the chimney nook 

Having found admittance. 

There I watch a pup 

Playing with two kittens ; 

(Playing round the fire. 
Which of blazing turf is. 

Roaring to the pot 



PEG OF LIMAVADDY. 4 1 

Which bubbles with the murphies.) 
And the cradled babe 

Fond the mother nursed it, 
Singing it a song 

As she twists the worsted ! 

Up and down the stair 

Two more young ones patter 
(Twins were never seen 

Dirtier or fatter). 
Both have mottled legs, 

Both have snubby noses, 
Both have — Here the host 

Kindly interposes : 
" Sure you must be froze 

With the sleet and hail, sir : 
So will you have some punch, 

Or will you have some ale, sir V 

Presently a maid 

Enters with the liquor 
(Half a pint of ale 

Frothing in a beaker). 
Gads ! I didn't know 

What my beating heart meant : 
Hebe's self, I thought. 

Entered the apartment. 
As she came she smiled. 

And the smile bewitching, 
On my word and honor. 

Lighted all the kitchen ! 
With a curtsey neat 

Greeting the new comer. 
Lovely, smiling Peg 

Offers me the rummer ; 

But my trembling hand 
Up the beaker tilted. 



42 BALLADS. 

And the glass of ale 
Every drop I spilt it : 

Spilt it every drop 

(Dames, who read my volumes, 

Pardon such a word) 

On my what-d'ye-call-'ems ! 

Witnessing the sight 

Of that dire disaster, 
Out began to laugh 

Missis, maid, and master ; 
Such a merry peal 

'Specially Miss Peg's was, 
(As the glass of ale 

Tricklhig down my legs was,) 
That the joyful sound 

Of that mingling laughter 
Echoed in my ears 

Many a long day after. 

Such a silver peal ! 

In the meadows listening, 
You who've heard the bells 

Ringing to a christening ; 
You who ever heard 

Caradori pretty, 
Smiling like an angel. 

Singing " Giovinetti ;" 
Fancy Peggy's laugh. 

Sweet, and clear, and cheerful, 
At my pantaloons 

With half a pint of beer full ! 

When the laugh was done, 
Peg, the pretty hussy, 

Moved about the room 
Wonderfully busy ; 



PEG OF LIMAVADDY. 43 

Now she looks to see 

If the kettle keeps hot ; 
Now she rubs the spoons, 

Now she cleans the teapot ; 
Now she sets the cups 

Trimly and secure : 
Now she scours a pot, 

And so it was I drew her. 

Thus it was I drew her 

Scouring of a kettle, 
(Faith ! her blushing cheeks 

Redden'd on the metal !) 
Ah ! but 'tis in vain 

That I try to sketch it ; 
The pot perhaps is like, 

But Peggy's face is wretched. 
No ! the best of lead 

And of india-rubber 
Never could depict 

That sweet kettle-scrubber I 

See her as she moves. 

Scarce the ground she touche<i 
Airy as a fay. 

Graceful as a duchess : 
Bare her rounded arm, 

Bare her little leg is, 
Vestris never show'd 

Ankles like to Peggy's. 
Braided is her hair, 

Soft her look and modest, 
Slim her little waist 

Comfortably bodiced. 

This I do declare, 
Happy is the laddy 



44 BALLADS. 

Who the heart can share 

Of Peg of Limavaddy. 
Married if she were, 

Blest would be the daddy 
Of the children fair 

Of Peg of Limavaddy. 
Beauty is not rare 

In the land of Paddy, 
Fair beyond compare 

Is Peg of Limavaddy. 

Citizen or Squiie, 

Tory, Whig, or Radi- 
cal would all desire 

Peg of Limavaddy. 
Had I Homer's fire. 

Or that of Serjeant Taddy, 
Meetly I'd admire 

Peg of Limavaddy. 
And till I expire, 

Or till I grow mad, I 
Will sing unto my lyre 

Peg of Limavaddy ! 



MAY-DAY ODE. 

But ycsti?rday a naked sod 

The dandies sneered from Rotten Row, 
And cantered o'er it to and fro : 

And see 'tis done ! 
As though 'twere by a wizard's rod 
A blazing arch of lucid glass 
Leaps like a fountain from the grass 
To meet the sun ! 



J/AV-DAV ODE. 45 

A quiet greea but few days since. 
With cattle browsing in the shade : 
And here are lines of bright arcade 
In order raised ! 
A palace as for fairy prince, 
A rare pavilion, such as man 
Saw never since mankind began, 

And built and glazed ! 

A peaceful place it was but now. 
And lo ! within its shining streets 
A multitude of nations meets ; 

A countless throng 
I see beneath the crystal bow, 

And Cjaul and German, Russ and Turk, 
Each with his native handiwork 

And busy tongue. 

I felt a thrill of love and awe 

To mark the different garb of each, 
The changing tongue, the various speech 
Together blent : 
A thrill, methinks, like His who saw 
"All people dwelling upon earth 
Praising our God with solemn mirth 
And one consent." 



High Sovereign, in your Royal state. 
Captains and chiefs, and councillors, 
Before the lofty palace doors 

Are open set, — 
Hush ! ere you pass the shining gate ; 
Hush ! ere the heaving curtain draws, 
And let the Royal pageant pause 
A moment yet. 



46 BALLADS. 

People and prince a silence keep ! 
Bow coronet and kingly crown, 
Helmet and plume, bow lowly down. 
The while the priest, 
Before the splendid portal step, 

(While still the wondrous banquet stays,) 
' From Heaven supreme a blessing prays 
Upon the feast. 

Then onwards let the triumph march ; 
Then let the loud artillery roll, 
And trumpets ring, and joy-bells toll,, 
And pass the gate. 
Pass underneath the shining arch, 

'Neath which the leafy elms are green ; 
Ascend unto your throne, O Queen ! 
And take your state. 

Behold her in her Royal place ; 
A gentle lady ; and the hand 
That sways the sceptre of this land, 

How frail and weak ! 
Soft is the voice, and fair the face : 

She breathes amen to prayer and hymn ; 
No wonder that her eyes are dim. 

And pale her cheek. 



This moment round her empire's shores 
The winds of Austral winter sweep. 
And thousands lie in midnight sleep 
At rest to-day. 
Oh ! awful is that crown of yours, 
Queen of innumerable realms 
Sitting beneath the budding elms 

Of English May I 



MAY-DAY ODE. 47 

A wondrous sceptre 'tis to bear : 
Strange mystery of God which set 
Upon her brow yon coronet, — 

The foremost crown 
Of all the world, on one so fair ! 
That chose her to it from her birth, 
And bade the sons of all the earth 

To her bow down. 

The representatives of man 
Here from the far Antipodes, 
And from the subject Indian seas. 

In Congress meet ; 
From Afric and from Hindustan, 
- From Western continent and isle. 
The envoys of her empire pile 

Gifts at her feet ; 

Our brethren cross the Atlantic tides. 
Loading the gallant decks which once 
Roared a defiance to our guns, 

With peaceful store ; 
Symbol of peace, their vessel rides ! * 
O'er English v/aves float Star and Stripe, 
And firm their friendly anchors gripe ^ 
The father shore ! 

From Rhina and Danube, Rhone and Seine, 
As rivers from their sources gush. 
The swelling floods of nations rush, 
And seaward pout : 

From coast to coast in friendly chain, 

With countless ships we bridge the straits, 
And angry ocean separates 

Europe no more. 
* The U. S. frigate " St. Lawrence." 



48 BALLADS. 

From Mississippi and from Nile — 
From Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorus, 
In England's ark assembled thus 

Are friend and guest. 
Look down the mighty sunlit aisle. 
And see the sumptuous banquet set, 
The brotherhood of nations met 

Around the feast ! 



Along the dazzling colonnade, 
Far as the straining eye can gaze, 
Gleam cross and fountain, bell and vas*> 
In vistas bright ; 
And statues fair of nymph and maid, 
And steeds and pards and Amazons, 
Writhing and grappling in the bronze, 
In endless fight. 
\ 

To deck the glorious roof and dome. 
To make the Queen a canopy. 
The peaceful hosts of industry 

Their standards bear. 
Yon are the works of Brahmin loom ; 
On such a web of Persian thread 
The desert Arab bows his head 

And cries his prayer. 

Look yonder where the engines toil : 
These England's arms of conquest are, 
The trophies of her bloodless war : 

Brave v.'eapons these. 
Victorious over wave and soil, 

With these she sails, she weaves, she tills 
Bi/^'-ces the everlasting hills 

And spans the seas. 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 49 

The engine roars upon its race, 
The shuttle whirrs along the woof, 
The people hum from floor to roof, 

With Babel tongue. 
The fountain in the basin plays, 
The chanting organ echoes clear, 
An awful chorus 'tis to hear, 

A wondrous song ! 

Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast, 
March, Queen and Royal pageant, march 
By splendid aisle and springing arch 
Of this fair Hall : 
And see ! above the fabric vast, 

God's boundless heaven is bending blue, 
God's peaceful sunlight's beaming through. 
And shines o'er all. 
May, 1851. 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 

A STREET there is in Paris famous. 

For which no rhyme our language yields, 
Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is— 

The New Street of the little Fields. 
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, 

But still in comfortable case ; 
The which in youth I oft attended, 

To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 

This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 
A sort of soup or broth, or brew, 

Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, 
That Greenwich never could outdo j 



50 BALLADS. 

Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, 
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace : 

All these you eat at Terre's tavern. 
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis ; 

And true philosophers, methinks, 
Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 

Should love good victuals and good drinkr. 
And Cordelier or Benedictine 

Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace. 
Nor find a fast-day too afHicting, 

Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder if the house still there is ? 

Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
The smiling red-cheeked ^cailicrc is 

Still opening oysters at the door. 
Is Terre still alive and able ? 

I recollect his droll grimace : 
He'd come and smile before your tabic. 

And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. 

We enter — nothing's changed or older, 

" How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?" 
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder — 

" Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
" It is the lot of saint and sinner. 

So honest Terre's run his race," 
" What will Monsieur require for dinner?" 

" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" 

"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer 
" Quel vin Monsieur dfcsire-t-il ?" 

" Tell me a good one," — "That I can. Sir ; 
The Chambertin with yellow scab" 



THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 5 I 

" So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in 

My old accustom'd corner-place ; 
'♦ He's done with feasting and with drinking. 

With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 

My old accustom'd corner here is, 

The table still is in the nook ; _ 
Ah ! vanish'd many a busy year is 

This well-known chair since last I took. 
When first I saw ye, carl luoghi, 

I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 

I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 

Where are you, old companions trusty 

Of early days here met to dine ? 
Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty— 

I'll pledge them in the good old winCo 
The kind old voices and old faces 

My memory can quick retrace ; 
Around the board they take their places, 

And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage j 

There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 

There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
On James's head the grass is growing : 

Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace 
Since here w^e set the claret flowing. 

And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 

Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 

I mind me of a time that's gone. 
When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting. 

In this same place— but not alone. 



5 2 BALLADS. 

A fair young form was nestled near me, 
A dear, dear face looked fondly up, 

And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me 
— There's no one now to share my cup. 



I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes : 
I^ill up the lonely glass, and drain it 

In memory of dear old times. 
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 

And sit you down and say your grace 
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 

- — Here comes the smoking I^ouillabaisse ! 



THE MAHOGANY TREE. 

Christmas is here : 
Winds whistle shrill, 
Icy and chill, 
Little care we : 
Little we fear 
Weather without, 
Shelter about 
The Mahogany Tree. 

Once on the boughs 
Birds of rare plume 
Sang, in its bloom ; 
Night-birds are we : 
Here we carouse, 
Singing like them, 
Perched round the stem 
Of the jolly old tree. 



THE MAHOGANY TREE, 53 

Here let us sport, 
Boys, as we sit ; 
Laughter and wit 
Flashing so free. 
Life is but short — 
When we are gone, 
Let them sing on 
Round the old tree. 

Evenings we knew, 
Happy as this ; 
Faces wc miss, 
Pleasant to sec. 
Kind hearts and true, 
Gentle and just, 
Peace to your dust ! 
We sing round the tree. 

Care, like a dun. 
Lurks at the gate : 
Let the dog wait ; 
Happy we'll be ! 
Drink, every one ; 
Pile up the coals. 
Fill the red bowls. 
Round the old tree ! 

Drain we the cup. — 
Friend, art afraid ? 
Spirits are laid 
In the Red Sea. 
Mantle it up ; 
Empty it yet ; 
Let us forget. 
Round the old tree. 

Sorrows, begone ! 
Life and its ills, 



54 BALLADS. 

Duns and their bills, 
Bid we to flee. 
Come with the dawn, 
lUue-devil sprite, 
].eave us to-ni,yht, 
Round the old tree. 



THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS. 

" A surgeon of the United States Army says, that on 
inquirinpj of the captain of his company, he found that 
nine tenths o[ ihc men had enlisted on account of some 
female difficulty.'" — Morning Pa/>e7-. 

Ye Yankee volunteers ! 
It makes my bosom bleed 
When I your story read, 

Thou;:^h oft 'tis told one. 
So — in both hemispheres 
The women are untrue, 
And cruel in the New, 

As in the Old one ! 

What — in this company 

Of sixty sons of Mars, 

Who march'd neath Stripes and Stars, 

With fife and horn, 
Nine tenths of all we see 
Along the Vv^arlike line 
Had but one cause to join 

This Hope Forlorn ? 

Deserted from the realm 
Where tyrant Venus reigns, 
You slipp'd her wicked chains, 
Fled and outran her. 



TflE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS. 55 

And now, with sword and helm, 
Together banded are 
Beneath the Stripe and Star- 
Embroider'd banner ! 

And is it so with all 

The warriors ranged in line, 

With lace bedizen 'd fine 

And swords gold-hilted ? 
Yon lusty corporal. 
Yon color-man who gripes 
The flag of Stars and Stripes-^- 

Has each been jilted ? 

Come, each man of this line. 
The privates strong and tall, 
" The pioneers and all," 

The fifer nimble — 
Lieutenant and Ensign, 
Captain with epaulets, 
And Blacky there, who beats 

The clanging cymbal — 

O cymbal-beating black, 
Tell us, as thou canst feel, 
Was it some Lucy Neal 

Who caused thy ruin ? 
O nimble fifing Jack, 
And drummer making din 
So deftly on the skin. 

With thy rat-tattooing--' 

Confess, ye volunteers, 
Lieutenant and Ensign, 
And Captain of the line, 
As bold as Roman — 



5 6 BALLADS. 

Confess, ye grenadiers. 
However strong and tall. 
The Conqueror of you all 
Is Woman, Woman ! 

No corselet is so proof 

But through it from her bow 

The shafts that she can throw 

Will pierce and rankle. 
No champion e'er so tough, 
I5ut's in the struggle thrown, 
And tripp'd and trodden down 

By her slim ankle. 

Thus always it was ruled : 
And when a woman smiled, 
'I'he strong man was a child, 

The sage a noodle. 
Alcidcs was befool'd, 
And silly Samson shorn, 
Long, long ere you were born, 

Poor Yankee Doodle ! 



THE PEN AND THE ALBUM. 

"I AM Miss Catherine's book," the Album 

speaks ; 
" I've lain among your tomes these many weeks ; 
I'm tired of their old coats and yellow cheeks. 

** Quick, Pen ! and write a line with a good grace : 

Come ! draw me off a funny little face ; 

And, prithee, send me back to Chesham Place." 



THE PEN AND THE ALBUM. 57 
PEN. 

"I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen ; 

I've served him three long years, and drawn since 

then 
Thousands of funny women and droll men. 

" O Album ! could I tell you all his ways 

And thoughts, since I am his, these thousand 

days, 
Lord, how your pretty pages I'd amaze !" 

ALBUM. 

"' His ways? his thoughts? Just whisper me a 

few ; 
Tell me a curious anecdote or two, 
And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do ■" 



" Since he my faithful service did engage 
To follow him through his queer pilgrimage 
I've drawn and written many a line and page. 

"Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes, 
And dinner-cards, and picture pantomimes, 
And merry little children's books at times. 

" I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain ; 

The aimless jest that, striking, hath caused pain 

The idle word that he'd wish back again. 



" I've help'd him to pen many a line for bread ; 
To joke, with sorrow aching in his head ; 
And make your laughter when his own heart 
bled. 



50 BALLADS. 

" I've spoke with men of all degree and sort-— 
Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court ; 
Oh, but I've chronicled a deal of sport ! 

" Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago. 
Biddings to wine that long hath ceased to flow, 
Gay meetings with good fellows long laid low ; 

" Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball, 
Tradesmen's polite reminders of his small 
Account due Christmas last — I've answer'd all. 

" Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half- 
Guinea ; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph ; 
So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh, 

"Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff, 
Day after day still dipping in my trough, 
And scribbling pages after pages off. 

" Day after day the labor's to be done. 
And sure as come the postman and the sun, 
The indefatigable ink must run. 



" Go back, my pretty little gilded tome, 
To a fair mistress and a pleasant home. 
Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er we come ! 

'* Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness lit, 
However rude my verse, or poor my wit, 
Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it. 

" Kind lady ! till my last of lines is penn'd. 
My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end. 
Whene'er I write yom- name, may I write friend ! 



AIRS. KATHERINE'S LANTE.RN. 59 

" Not all are so that were so in past years ; 
Voices, familiar once, no more he hears ; 
Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears. 

"So be it : — joys will end and tears will dry — 
Album ! my master bids me wish good-by 
He'll send you to your mistress presently. 

" And thus with thankful heart he closes you : 
Blessing the happy hour when a friend he knew 
So gentle, and so generous, and so true. 

" Nor pass the words as idle phrases by ; 

Stranger ! I never writ a flattery, 

Nor sign'd the page that registcr'd a lie." 



MRS. KATHERINE'S LANTERN. 

WRITTEN IN A LADY's ALBUM. 

" Coming from a gloomy court, 
Place of Israelite resort. 
This old lamp I've brought with me. 
Madam, on its panes you'll see 
The initials K and E." 

' ' An old lantern brought to me ? 

Ugly, dingy, battered, black ! " 

(Here a lady I suppose 

Turning up a pretty nose) — 

' ' Pray, sir, take the old thing back. 

I've no taste for bric-a-brac ^ 

"Please to mark the letters twain" — 
(I'm supposed to speak again) — 



6o BALLADS. 

" Graven on the lantern pane. 
Can you tell me who was she, 
Mistress of the flowery wreath, 
And the anagram beneath — 
The mysterious K E ? 

' ' Full a hundred years are gone 
r Since the little beacon shone 

From a Venice balcony ; 
There, on summer nights, it hung. 
And her lovers came and sung 
To their beautiful K E. 

" Hush ! in the canal below 
Don't you hear the plash of oars 
Underneath the lantern's glow, 
And a thrilling voice begins 
To the sound of mandolins ? — 
Begins singing of amore 
And delire and dolore — 
O the ravishing tenore ! 

" Lady, do you know the tune ? 
Ah, we all of us have hummed it ! 
I've an old guitar has thrummed it. 
Under many a changing moon. 
Shall I try it? i?c; re MI * * 
What is this ? Ma foi, the fact is, 
That my hand is out of practice, 
And my poor old fiddle cracked is, 
And a man — I let the truth out — 
Who's had almost every tooth out. 
Cannot sing as once he sung, 
When he was young as you are young, 
When he was young and lutes were strunj. 
And love-lamps in the casement hung." 



THE CANE-BOTTOM' D CHAIR. 6 1 

LUCY'S BIRTHDAY. 

Seventeen rose-buds in a ring-, 

Thick with sister flowers beset, 

In a fragrant coronet, 
Lucy's servants this day bring. 

Be it the birthday wreath she wears 
Fresh and fair, and symbolling- 

The young number of her years, 
The sweet blushes of her spring. 

Types of youth and love and hope ! 

Friendly hearts your mistress greet, 

Be you ever fair and sweet. 
And grow lovelier as you ope ! 

Gentle nurseling, fenced about 
With fond care, and guarded so. 

Scarce you've heard of storms without, 
Frosts that bite, or winds that blow ! 

Kindly has your life begun. 

And we pray that Heaven may send 
To our floweret a warm sun, 

A calm summer, a sweet end. 
And where'er shall be her home, 

May she decorate the place ; 
Still expanding into bloom, 

And developing in grace. 



THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. 

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars. 
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars. 
Away from the world and its t(;ils and its cares, 
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. 



62 BALLADS. 

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, 

But the fire there is bright and the air rather 

pure ; 
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day 
Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. 

This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks 
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, 
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, 
Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes 
from friends. 

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all 

crack'd). 
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed ; 
A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see ; 
What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

No better divan need the Sultan require, 
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire ; 
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get 
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. 

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; 
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; 
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. 

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and 

the chimes, 
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and 

old times ; 
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie 
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest. 
There's one that I love and I cherish the best ; 



THE CANE-BOTTOAPD CHAIR. ^Z 

For the finest of couches that's padded with hair 
I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd 
chair. 

'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten 

seat, 
With a creaking old back and twisted old feet ; 
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, 
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottora'd 

chair. 

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such 

charms 
A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd 

old arms ! 
I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair ; 
I wished myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair. 

It was but a moment she sat in this place, 
She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her 

face ! 
A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, 
And she sat there, and bloora'd in my cane- 
bottom'd chair. 

And so I have valued my chair ever since, 
'Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a 

prince ; 
Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, 
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd 

chair. 

When the candles burn low, and the company's 

gone, 
In the silence of night as I sit here alone — 
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair — 
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair. 



64 BALLADS. 

She comes from the past and revisits my room ; 
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom 
%o smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, 
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair. 



PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. 

LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PKINT. 

As on this pictured page I look, 
This pretty tale of line and hook 
As though it were a novel-book 

Amuses and engages : 
I know them both, the boy and girl ; 
She is the daughter of the Earl, 
The lad (that has his hair in curl) 

My lord the County's page is. 

A pleasant place for such a pair ! 
The fields lie basking in the glare ; 
No breath of wind the heavy air 

Of lazy summer quickens. 
Hard by you see the castle tall ; 
The village nestles round the wall, 
As round about the hen its small 

Young progeny of chickens. 

It is too hot to pace the keep ; 
To climb the turret is too steep ; 
My lord the Earl is dozing deep. 

His noonday dinner over : 
The postern-warder is asleep 
(Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep) 
And so from out the gate they creep. 

And cross the fields of clover. 



PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. 65 

Their lines into the brook they launch ; 
He lays his cloak upon a branch, 
To guarantee his Lady Blanche 

's delicate complexion : 
lie takes his rapier from his haunch, 
That beardless doughty champion staunch \ 
He'd drill it through the rival's paunch 

That question'd his affection ! 

O heedless pair of sportsmen slack ! 
You never mark, though trout or jack, 
Or little foolish stickleback, 

Your baited snares may capture. 
What care has ske for line and hook ? 
She turns her back upon the brook, 
Upon her lover's eyes to look 

In sentimental rapture. 

O loving pair ! as thus I gaze 
Upon the girl who smiles always, 
The little hand that ever plays 

Upon the lover's shoulder ; 
In looking at your pretty shapes, 
A sort of envious wish escapes 
(Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) 

The Poet your beholder. 

To be brave, handsome, twenty-two ^ 
With nothing else on earth to do, 
But all day long to bill and coo : 

It were a pleasant calling. 
And had I such a partner sweet ; 
A tender heart for mine to beat, 
A gentle hand my clasp to meet ; — 
I'd let the world flow at my feet, 

And never heed its brawling. 



66 BALLADS. 



TUB ROSE UPON MY BALCONY, 

The rose upon my balcony the morning air per 
fuming, 
^yas leafless all the winter time and pining for 
the spring ; 
You ask mc why her breath is sweet, and why 
her cheek is blooming : 
It is because the sun is out and birds begin to 
sing. 

The nightingale, whose melody is through the 
greenwood ringing. 
Was silent when the boughs were bare and 
winds were blowing keen : 
And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his 
singing, 
It is because the sun is out and all the leaves 
are green. 

Thus each performs his part. Mamma : the birds 
have found their voices, 
The blowing rose a flush. Mamma, her bonny 
cheek to dj-e ; 
And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which 
wakens and rejoices. 
And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's 
the reason why. 



RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS. 67 



RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS. 

'Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir A la chandelle, 
Assise aupres du feu devisant et filant, 
Dhez, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant : 
Ronsard me celebioit du temps que j'etois belle." 

Some winter nig-ht, shut snugly in 

Beside the fagot in the hall, 
I think I see you sit and spin, 

Surrounded by your maidens all. 
Old tales are told, old songs are sung, 

Old days come back to memoiy ; 
Yoa say, " When I was fair and young, 

A poet sang of me !" 

There's not a maiden in your hall. 

Though tired and sleepy ever so, 
But wakes, as you my name recall, 

And longs the history to know. 
And, as the piteous tale is said, 

Of lady cold and lover true, 
Each, musing, carries it to bed, 

And sighs and envies you ! 

*' Our lady's old and feeble now," 

They'll say ; " she once was fresh and fair, 
And yet she spurn 'd her lover's vow, 

And heartless left him to despair : 
The lover lies in silent earth. 

No kindly mate the lady cheers : 
She sits beside a lonely hearth. 

With threescore and ten years !" 

Ah ! dreary thoughts and dreams are those, 
But wherefore yield me to despair, 



68 BALLADS. 

While yet the poet's bosom glows, 
While yet the dame is peerless fair ? 

Sweet lady mine ! while yet 'tis time 
Requite my passion and my truth, 

And gather in their blushing prime 
The roses of your youth ! 



AT THE CHURCH GATE. 

Although I enter not, 
Yet round about the spot 

Ofttimes I hover : 
And near the sacred gate. 
With longing eyes I wait, 

Expectant of her. 

The Minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout, 

And noise and humming : 
They've hushed the Minster bell : 
The organ 'gins to swell : 

She's coming, she's coming ! 

My lady comes at last, 

Timid, and stepping fast. 
And hastening hither. 

With modest eyes downcast : 

She comes — she's here — she's past- 
May Heaven go with her ! 

Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint ! 
Pour out your praise or plaint 
Meekly and duly ; 



THE AGE OF WISDOM. 69 

I will not enter there, 
To sully your pure prayer 
With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering- a minute 
Like outcast spirits who wait 
And see through heaven's gate 

Angels within it. 



THE AGE OF WISDOM. 

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin. 

That never has known the barber's shear, 
All your wish is woman to win, 
This is the way that boys begin, — 
Wait till you come to Forty Year. 

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, 

_ Billing and cooing is all your cheer ; 
Sighing and singing of midnight strains, 
Under Bonnybell's window panes, — 
^Vait till you come to Forty Year. 

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, 
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear — 
Then you know a boy is an ass. 
Then you know the worth of a lass, 
Once you have come to Forty Year. 

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, 

AH good fellows whose beards are gray 



7o BALLADS. 

Did not the fairest of the fair 
Common grow and wearisome ere 
Ever a month was pass'd away ? 

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
May pray and whisper, and we not list, 
Or look away, and never be missed, 
Ere yet ever a month is gone. 

Gillian's dead, God rest her bier, 

How I loved her twenty years syne ! 
Marian's married, but I sit here 
Alone and merry at Forty Year, 
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 



SORROWS OF WERTHER. 

Werther had a love for Charlotte 
Such as words could never utter ; 

Would you know how first he met her ? 
She was cutting bread and butter. 

Charlotte was a married lady. 
And a moral man Vv^as Werther, 

And, for all the wealth of Indies, 
Would do nothing for to hurt her. 

So he sighed and pined and ogled. 
And his passion boiled and bubbled, 

Till he blew his silly brains out, 
And no more was by it troubled. 



A DOB IN THE CITY. 71 

Charlotte, having seen his body 
Borne before her on a shutter, 

Like a well-conducted person, 

Went on cutting bread and butter. 



A DOE IN THE CITY. 

Little Kitty Lorimer, 
Fair, and young, and witty, 

What has brought your ladys'hip 
Rambling to the City ? 

All the Stags in Capel Court 

Saw her lightly trip it ; 
All the lads of Stock Exchange 

Twigg'd her muff and tippet. 

With a sweet perplexity, 

And a mystery pretty. 
Threading through Threadneedle Street, 

Trots the little Kitty. 

What was my astonishment — 

What was my compunction, 
When she reached the Offices 

Of the Didland Junction ! 

Up the Didland stairs she went, 

To the Didland door, Sir ; 
Porters, lost in wonderment, 

Let her pass before. Sir. 

" Madam," says the old chief Clerk, 
" Sure we can't admit ye," 



7 2 BALLADS, 

" Vvliere's the Didland Junction deed ?' 
Dauntlessly says Kitty. 

' ' If you doubt my honesty, 
Look at my receipt. Sir." 

Up then jumps the old chief Clerk, 
Smihng as he meets her. 

Kitty at the table sits 

(Whither the old Clerk leads her), 
" / deliver this," she says, 

' ' As my act and deed. Sir." 

When I heard these funny words 
Come from lips so pretty, 

This, I thought, should surely be 
Subject for a ditty. 

What ! are ladies stagging it ? 

Sure, the more's the pity ; 
But I've lost my heart to her, — 

Naughty little Kitty. " 



THE LAST OF MAY. 

UN REPLY TO AN INVITATION DATED ON THE 1ST.) 

By fate's benevolont award, 

Should I survive the day, 
I'll drink a bumper with my lord 

Upon the last of May. 

That I may reach that happy time 
The kindly gods I pray. 



THE MOOR. 73 

For are not ducks and peas in prime 
Upon the last of May ? 

At thirty boards, 'twixt now and then, 

My knife and fork shall play ; 
But better wine and better men 

I shall not meet in May. 

And though, good friend, with whom I dine, 

Your honest head is gray, 
A.nd, like this grizzled head of mine. 

Has seen its last of May ; 

V^et, with a heart that's ever kind, 

A gentle "Spirit gay, 
You've spring perennial in your mind. 

And round you make a May ! 



"AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE 
MOOR." 

Ah ! bleak and barren was the moor. 

Ah ! loud and piercing was the storm, 
The cottage roof was sheltered sure. 

The cottage hearth was bright and warm — 
An orphan-boy the lattice pass'd, 

And, as he marked its cheerful glow. 
Felt doubly keen the midnight blast. 

And doubly cold the fallen snow. 

They marked him as he onward press'd. 
With fainting heart and weary limb ; 

Kind voices bade him turn and rest. 
And g-entle faces welcomed him. 



74 BALLADS. 

The dawn is up — the guest is gone, 
The cottage hearth is blazing still : 

Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone ! 
Hark to the wind upon the hill ! 



SONG OF THE VIOLET. 

A HUMBLE flower long time I pined 

Upon the solitary plain, 
And trembled at the angry wind, 

And shrunk before the bitter rain. 
And oh ! 'twas in a blessed hour 

A passing wanderer chanced to see, 
And, pitying the lonely flower, 

To stoop and gather me. 

I fear no more the tempest rude, 

On dreary heath no more I pine, 
But left my cheerless solitude, 

To deck the breast of Caroline. 
Alas ! our days are brief at best, 

Nor long, I fear, will mine endure. 
Though sheltered here upon a breast 

So gentle and so pure. 

It draws the fragrance from my leaves 

It robs me of my sweetest breath, 
And every time it falls and heaves, 

It warns me of my coming death. 
But one I knov/ would glad forego 

All joys of life to be as I ; 
An hour to rest on that sweet breast, 

And then, contented, die. 



FAIRY DAYS. 75 



FAIRY DAYS. 

Beside the old hall-fire— upon my nurse's knee, 
Of happy fairy days — what tales were told to me ! 
1 thought the world was once — all peopled with 

princesses, 
And my heart would beat to hear — their loves and 

their distresses ; 
And many a quiet night, — in slumber sweet and 

deep, 
The pretty fairy people — would visit me in sleep. 

I saw them in my dreams — come flying east and 

west, 
With wondrous fairy gifts — the new-born babe 

they bless'd ; 
One has brought a jewel — and one a crown of gold, 
And one has brought a curse — but she is wrinkled 

and old. 
The gentle queen turns pale — to hear those words 

of sin. 
But the king he only laughs — and bids the dance 

begin. 

The babe has grown to be — the fairest of the land, 
And rides the forest green — a hawk upon her 

hand, 
An ambling palfrey white — a golden robe and 

crown : 
I've seen her in my dreams — riding up and down : 
And heard the ogre laugh — as she fell into hi^ 

snare, 
At the little tender creature — who wept and tore 

her hair ! 



76 BALLADS. 

But ever when it seemed— her need was at the 

sorest, 
A prince in shining mail — comes prancing througb 

the forest, 
A waving ostrich-plume — a buckler burnished 

bright ; 
I've seen him in my dreams — good sooth ! a 

gallant knight. 
His lips are coral red — beneath a dark mustache ; 
See how he waves his hand— and how his blue 

eyes flash ! 

" Come forth, thou Paynim knight !" — he shouts 

in accents clear. 
The giant and the maid — both tremble his voice 

to hear. 
Saint ]\Iary guard him well ! — he drav/s his 

falchion keen, 
The giant and the knight — arc fighting on the 

green. 
I see them in my dreams — his blade gives stroke 

on stroke, 
The giant pants and reels — and tumbles like an 

oak ! 



With v/hat a blushing grace — he falls upon his 

knee 
And takes the lady's hand — and whispers, * ' You 

are free I" 
Ah I happy childish tales — of knight and faerie ! 
I waiter! from my dreams — but there's ne'er a 

knight for m.e ; 
I waken from my dreams — and wish that I could 

be 
A child by the old hall-fire — upon my nurse's 

knee ! 



POCAHONTAS, ^^ 



POCAHONTAS. 

Wearied arm and broken sword 
Wage in vain the desperate fight : 

Round him press a countless horde, 
He is but a single knight. 

Hark ! a cry of triumph shrill 

Through the wilderness resounds, 
As, with twenty bleeding wounds, 

Sinks the warrior, fighting still. 

Now they heap the fatal pyre, 

And the torch of death they light ; 

Ah ! 'tis hard to die of fire ! 

Who v/ill shield the captive knight ? 

Round the stake with fiendish cry 
Wheel and dance the savage crowd, 
Cold the victim's mien, and proud, 

And his breast is bared to die. 

Who will shield the fearless heart ? 

Who avert the murderous blade ? 
From the throng, with sudden start. 

See there springs an Indian maid. 
Quick she stands before the knight : 

" Loose the chain, unbind the ring ; 

I am daughter of the king, 
And I claim the Indian right !" 

Dauntlessly aside she flings 
Lifted axe and thirsty knife ; 

Fondly to his heart she clings, 
And her bosum guards his life ! 

In the woods of Powhattan, 
Still 'tis told by Indian fires. 
How a daughter of their sires 

Saved the captive Englishman. 



78 BALLADS. 



FROM POCAHONTAS. 

Returning from the cruel fight 

How pale and faint appears my knight ! 

He sees me anxious at his side ; 

" Why seek, my love, your wounds to hide? 

Or deem your English girl afraid 

To emulate the Indian maid?" 

Be mine my husband's grief to cheer, 
In peril to be ever near ; 
Whate'er of ill or woe betide, 
To bear it clinging at his side ; 
The poisoned stroke of fate to ward, 
His bosom with my own to guard : 
Ah ! could it spare a pang to his. 
It could not know a purer bliss ! 
'Twould gladden as it felt the smart. 
And thank the hand that flung the dart ! 



THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF 
KIOFF. 

AN EPIC POEM, IN TWENTY BOOKS. 



[The poet describes the city and spelling of Kiow, Kioff- 
or Kiova.] 

A THOUSAND years ago, or more, 
A city filled with burghers stout, 
And girt with ramparts round about, 

Stood on the rocky Dnieper shore. 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC, 79 

In armor bright, by day and night, 

The sentries they paced to and fro. 
Well guarded and walled was this town, and 
called 
By different names, I'd have you to know ; 
For if you looks in the g'ography books, 
In those dictionaries the name it varies, 
And they write it off Kieff or Kioff , 

Kiova or Kiow. 

II. 

LIt3 buildings, public works, iind ordinances, veiigious 
and civil. — 'I'he poet shows how a certain priest dwelt 
at Kioff, a godly clergyman, and one that preaclied 
rare good sermons.] 

Thus guarded without by wall and redoubt, 

Kiova within was a place of renow^n, 
With more advantages than in those dark ages 
Were commonly known to belong to a town. 
There were places and squares, and each yeaf 

four fairs. 
And regular aldermen and regular lord mayors ; 
And streets, and alleys, and a bishop's palace ; 
And a church with clocks for the orthodox — 
With clocks and with spires, as religion desires; 
And beadles to whip the bad little boys 
Over their poor little corduroys. 
In service-time when they didiit make a noise ; 
And a chapter and dean, and a cathedral -green 
With ancient trees, underneath whose shades 
Wandered nice young nursery-maids. 
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-ding-a-ring-ding, 
The bells they made a merry merry ring, 
From the tall tall steeple ; and all the people 
(Except the Jews) cam^e and filled the pews — ■ 
Poles, Russians and Germans, 
To hear the sermons 



8o BALLADS. 

Which Hyacinth preached to those German^' 
and Poles 
For the safety of their souls. 

III. 
[How this priest was short and fat of body ; ] 

A worthy priest he was and a stout — 
You've seldom looked on such a one ; 

For, though he fasted thrice in a week, 

Yet nevertheless his skin was sleek ; 

His waist it spanned two yards about. 
And he weighed a score of stone. 

IV. 

[And like unto the author of " Plymley's Letters." ] 

A worthy priest for fasting and prayer 

And mortification most deserving, 
And as for preaching beyond compare : 
He'd exert his powers for three or four hours 
With greater pith than Sydney Smith 

Or the Reverend Edward Irving, 



[Of what convent he was prior, and when the convent 
was built.] 

He was the prior of Saint Sophia 

(A Cockney rhyme, but no better I know) — 

Of St. Sophia, that Church in Kiow, 

Built by missionaries I can't tell when ; 
Who by their discussions converted the Russians 

And made them Christian men. 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC. 



[Of Saint Sophia of Kioff ; and how her statue miracu- 
lously travelled thither. ] 

vSainted Sophia (so the legend vows) 
With special favor did regard this house ; 

And to uphold her converts' new devotion 
Her statue (needing but her legs for //cvship) 
Walks of itself across the German Ocean ; 
And of a sudden perches 
In this the best of churches, 
Whither all Kiovites come and pay it grateful 
worship. 

VII. 
[And how Kioff should have been a happy city ; but that] 

Thus with her patron-saints and pious preachers 
Recorded here in catalogue precise, 

A goodly city, worthy magistrates, 

You would have thought in all the Russian states 

The citizens the happiest of all creatures, — 
The town itself a perfect Paradise. 

VIII. 

[Certain wicked Cossacks did besiege it, murdering the 
citizens, until they agreed to pay a tribute yearly.— 
How they paid the tribute, and then suddenly refused 
it, to the wonder of the Cossack envoy.— Of a mighty 
gallant speech that the lord-mayor made, exhorting 
the burghers to pay no longer.] 

No, alas ! this well-built city 

Was in a perpetual fidget ; 
For the Tartars, without pity 

Did remorselessly besiege it. 

Tartars fierce, with swords and sabres, 
Huns and Turks, and such as these. 



82 BALLADS. 

Envied much their peaceful neighbors 
By the blue Borysthenes. 

Down they came, these ruthless Russians, 
From their steppes, and woods, and fens, 

For to levy contributions 
On the peaceful citizens. 

Winter, Summer, Spring, and Autumn, 
Down they came to peaceful Kioff, 

Killed the burghers when they caught 'em. 
If their lives they would not buy off. 

Till the city, quite confounded 

By the ravages they made, 
Humbly with their chi2f compounded. 

And a yearly tribute paid. 

Which (because their courage lax was) 
They discharged while they were able : 

Tolerated thus the tax was, 
Till it grew intolerable, 

And the Calmuc envoy sent, 
As before to take their dues all, 

Got, to his astonishment, 
A unanimous refusal ! 

*' Men of Kioff !" thus courageous 

Did the stout lord-mayor harangue them., 

'* Wherefore pay these sneaking wages 

To the hectoring Russians ? hang them ! 

** Hark ! I hear the awful cry of 
Our forefathers in their graves ; 

*' ' Fight, ye citizens of Kioff ! 

Kioff wag not made for slaves.' 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC. ^3 

" All too long have ye betrayed her ; 
Rouse, ye men and aldermen, 
Send the insolent invader — 

Send him starving back again." 



IX. 

[Of their thanks and heroic resolves.— They dismiss the 
envoy, and set about drilling.— Of the city guard : 
viz. militia, dragoons, and bombardiers, and their 
commanders. — Of the majors and captains, the fortifi- 
cations and artillery. — Of the conduct of the actors and 
the clergy .—Of the ladies ; and, finally, of the tay lors.] 

Me Spoke and he sat down ; the people of the 
town. 
Who were fired with a brave emulation, 
Now rose with one accord, and voted thanks 
unto the lord- 
Mayor for his oration : 

The envoy they dismissed, never placing in his 
fist 
So much as a single shilling ; 
And all with courage fired, as his lordship he 
desired, 
At once set about their drilling. 

Then every city ward established a guard, 

Diurnal and nocturnal : 
Militia volunteers, light dragoons, and bombar- 
diers. 

With an alderman for colonel. 

There was muster and roll-calls, and repairing 
city walls. 
And filling up of fosses ; 



84 BALLADS. 

And the captains and the majors, so gallant and 
courageous, 
A-riding- about on their hosses. 

To be guarded at all hours they built themselves 
watch-towcis, 
"With every tower a man on ; 
And surely and secure, each from out his embra- 
sure, 
Looked down the iron cannon ! 

A battle-song was writ for the theatre, where it 

Was sung with vast en6rgy 
And rapturous applause ; and besides, the public 
cause 

Was supported by the clergy. 

The pretty ladies'-maids were pinning of cock- 
ades, 
And tying on of sashes ; 
And dropping gentle tears, while their lovers 
bluster'd fierce 
About gun-shot and gashes ; 

The ladies took the hint, and all day were scrap- 
ing lint. 
As became their softer genders ; 
And got bandages and beds for the limbs and for 
the heads 
Of the city's brave defenders. 

The men, both young and old, felt resolute and 

bold. 
And panted hot for glory ; 
Even the tailors 'gan to brag, and embroidered 

on their flag, 

"AUT WINCERE AUT MORI." 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC. 85 



[Of the Crjssack chief— his stratagem ; and the burghers' 
sillie victorie. — What prisoners they took, and how 
conceited they were of the Cossark chief— his orders ; 
and how lie feigned a retreat, — The warder proclayms 
the Cossacks' retreat, and the citie greatly rejoyces.] 

Seeing the city's resolute condition, 

The Cossack chief, too cunning to despise it, 
Said to liimself, " Not having ammunition 
Wherewith to batter the place in proper form, 
Some of these nights I'll carrj' it by storm, 

And sudden escalade it or surprise it. 

" Let's see, however, if the cits stand firmish." 

He rode up to the city gates ; for answers, 
Out rushed an eager troop of the town elite. 
And straightway did begin a gallant skirmish : 
The Cossack hereupon did sound retreat. 
Leaving the victory with the city lancers. 

They took two prisoners and as many horses, 
And the whole town grew quickly so elate 

With this small victory of their virgin forces. 

That they did deem their privates and command 
ers 

So many Csesars, Pompeys, Alexanders, 
Napoleons, or Fredericks the Great. 

And puffing with inordinate conceit 

They utterly despised these Cossack thieves ; 

And thought the ruffians easier to beat 

Than porters carpets think, or ushers boys. 

Meanwhile, a sly spectator of their joys, 
The Cossack captain giggled in his sleeves. 

" Whene'er you meet yon stupid city hogs" 
(He bade his troops precise this order keep). 



86 BALLADS. 

" Don't stand a moment — run away, you dogs !" 
*Twas done ; and when they met the town bat- 
talions, 
The Cossacks, as if frightened at their valiance, 
Turned tail, and bolted like so many sheep. 

They fled, obedient to their captain's order : 
And now this bloodless siege a month had 
lasted, 
When, viewing the country round, the city warder 

(Who, like a faithful weathercock, did perch 
Upon the steeple of St. Sophy's church). 

Sudden his trumpet took, and a mighty blast 
he blasted. 

His voice it might be heard through all the streets 

(He was a warder wondrous strong in lung), 
" Victory, victory ! the foe retreats !" 
" The foe retreats !" each cries to each he meets ; 
" The foe retreats !" each in his turn repeats. 
Gods ! how the guns did roar, and how the joy- 
bells rung ! 

Arming in haste his gallant city lancers. 

The ma)^or, to learn if true the news might be, 
A league or two out issued with his prancers. 
The Cossacks (something had given their cour- 
age a damper) 
Hastened their iiight, and 'gan like mad to scam- 
per ; 
Blessed be all the saints, Kiova town was free ! 

XI. 
[The manner of ihe citie's rejoycings, and its impiety. — 
How the priest, Hyacinth, waited at church, and 
nobody came thither.] 

Now, puffed with pride, the mayor grew vain. 
Fought all his battles o'er again ; 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC. 8/ 

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he 

slew the slain. 
'Tis true he mig-ht amuse himself thus, 
And not be very mu.rderous ; 
For as of those who to death were done 
The number was exactly nG}ie, 
His lordship, in his soul's elation. 
Did take a bloodless recreation — 
Going home again, he did ordain 
A very splendid cold collation 
For the magistrates and the corporation ; 
Likewise a grand illumination 
For the amusement of the nation. 
That night \\\t theatres were free. 
The conduits they ran Malvoisie ; 
Each house that night did beam with light 
And sound with mirth and jolHty : 
But shame, O shame ! not a soul in the town. 
Now the city was safe and the Cossacks tiown. 
Ever thought of the bountiful saint by whose 
care 
The town had been rid of these terrible Turks- 
Said even a prayer to that patroness fair 

For these her wondrous works ! 
Lord Hyacinth waited, the meekest of priors — 
He waited at church with the rest of his friars ; 
He went there at noon and he waited till ten, 
Expecting in vain the lord-mayor and his men. 
He waited and waited from mid-day to dark ; 
But in vain— you might search through the whole 

of the church, 
Not a layman, alas ! to the city's disgrace. 
From mid-day to dark showed his "nose in the 

place. 
^ The pew-woman, organist, beadle, and clerk, 
Kept away from their work, and were dancing 
like mad 



88 BALLADS. 

Away in the streets with the other mad people, 
Not thinking to pray, but to guzzle and tipple 
Wherever the drink might be had. 

XII. 

[How he went forth to bid them to prayer. — How th« 
grooms and lackeys jeered him. — And the mayor, 
mayoress, and aldermen, beinj tipsie, refused to go to 
church.] 

Amidst tliis din and revelry throughout the city 

roaring, 
The silver moon rose silently, and high in heaven 

soaring ; 
Prior Hyacinth was fervently upon his knees 

adoring : 
"Toward my precious patroness this conduct 

sure unfair is ; 
I cannot think, 1 luust confess, what keeps the 

dignitaries 
And our good mayor away, unless some business 

them contraries." 

He puts his long white mantle on, and forth the 

prior sallies — 
(His pious thoughts were bent upon good deeds 

and not on malice): 
Heavens ! how the banquet lights they shone 

about the mayor's palace ! 
About the hall the scullions ran with meats both 

fresh and potted ; 
The pages came with cup and can, all for the 

guests allotted ; 
Ah, how they jeered that good fat man as up th^ 

stairs he trotted ! 

He entered in the ante-rooms v/here sat the may- 
or's court in ; 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC. 89 

He found a pack of drunken grooms a-dicing and 
a-sporting- ; 

The horrid wine and 'bacco fumes, they set the 
prior a-snorting ! 

The prior thought he'd speak about their sins 
before he went hence, 

And lustily began to shout of sin and of repent- 
ance ; 

The rogues, they kicked the prior out before he'd 
done a sentence ! 

And having got no portion small of buffeting 
and tussling, 

At last he reached the banquet-hall, where sat 
the mayor a-guzzling. 

And by his side his lady tall dressed out in white 
sprig muslin. 

Around the table in a ring the guests were drink- 
ing heavy ; 

They drunk the church, and drunk the king, and 
the army and the navy ; 

In fact they'd toasted everything. The prior 
said, " God save ye !" 

The mayor cried, " Bring a siker cup — there's 

one upon the buffet ; 
And, Prior, have the venison up — it's capita: 

rechatiffe. 
And so, vSir Priest, you've come to sup? And 

pray you, how's Saint Sophy?" 
The prior's face quite red was grown with horror 

and with anger ; 
Pie flung the proffered goblet down — it made a 

hideous clangor ; 
And 'gan a-preaching v*'ith a frown — he was a 

fierce haranfjuer. 



90 BALLADS, 

He tried the mayor and aldermen — they all set up 

a-jeering : 
He tried the common-councilmen — they too be. 

gan a-sneering : 
lie turned toward the may'ress then, and hoped 

to get a hearing. 
He knelt and seized her dinner-dress, made of the 

muslin snowy, 
" To church, to church, my sweet mistress !" 

he cried ; " the way I'll show ye." 
Alas, the lady-mayoress fell back as drunk as 

Chloe ! 

XIII. 

[How the prior went back .^lonp, and shut himi/T int<s 
Saint Sophia's chapel with his brethren.] 

Out from this dissolute and drunken court 

Went the good prior, his eyes with weeping 
dim : 
He tried the people of a meaner sort — 
They too, alas, were bent upon their sport, 
And not a single soul would follow him I 
But all were swigging schnapps and guzzling 
beer. 

He found the cits, their daughters, sons, and 

spouses, 
Spending the live-long night in fierce carouses : 

Alas, unthinking of the danger near ! 
One or two sentinels the ramparts guarded. 

The rest were sharing in the general feast : 
" God wot, our tipsy town is poorly Avarded ; 

Sweet Saint Sophia help us !" cried the priest. 

Alone he entered the cathedral gate. 

Careful he locked the mighty oaken door ; 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC. 91 

Within his company of monks did wait, 
A dozen poor old pious men — no more. 
Oh, but it grieved the gentle prior sore, 

To think of those lost souls, given up to drink 
and fate ! 

The miglity outer gate v/ell barred and fast. 
The poor old friars stirred their poor old bones, 
And pattering swiftly on the damp cold stones. 
They through the solitary chancel passed. 
The chancel walls looked black and dim and vast. 
And rendered, ghost-Hke, melancholy tones. 

Onward the fathers sped, till coming nigh a 
Small iron gate, the which they entered quick at, 
They locked and double-locked the inner wicket 

And stood within the chapel of Sophia. 

Vain were it to describe this sainted place, 
Vain to describe that celebrated trophy, 
The venerable statue of Saint Sophy, 

VV^hich formed its chiefest ornament and grace. 

Here the good prior, his personal griefs and 
sorrows 
In his extreme devotion quickly merging. 
At once began to pray with voice sonorous ; 
The other friars joined in pious chorus, 

And passed the night in singing, praying, 

scourging. 
In honor of Sophia, that sweet virgin. 



[The episode of Sneezoff and Katinl<a. — Plow the sentrie 
Siieezoff was surprised and slayn.] 

Leaving thus the pious priest in 
Humble penitence and prayer. 



()2 BALLADS. 

And the greedy cits a-feastingf, 
Let us to the walls repair. 

Walking by the sentry-boxes, 
Underneath the silver moon, 

Lo ! the sentry boldly cocks his-«* 
Boldly cocks his musketoon. 

Sneezoff was his designation. 

Fair-haired boy, forever pitied ; 
For to take his cruel station, 

He but now Katinka quitted. 

Poor in purse were both, but rich in 
Tender love's delicious plenties ; 

She a damsel of the kitchen, 
He a haberdasher's 'prentice. 

'Tinka, maiden tender-hearted, 
Was dissolved in tearful fits, 

On that fatal night she parted 

From her darling, fair-haired Fritz. 

Warm her soldier lad she wrapt in 
Comforter and rauffettee ; 

Called him "general" and "captain," 
Though a simple private he. 

" On your bosom wear this plaster, 
'Twill defend you from the cold ; 

In your pipe smoke this canaster — 
Smuggled 'tis, my love, and old. 

" All the night, my love, I'll miss you,' 
Thus she spoke ; and from the door 

Fair-haired Sneezoff made his issue, 
To return, alas, no more. 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC. 93 

He it is who calmly walks his 

Walk beneath the silver moon ; 
He it is who boldly cocks his 

Detonating musketoon. 

He the bland canaster puffing, 

As upon his round he paces, 
Sudden sees a ragamuffin 

Clambering swiftly up the glacis. 

" Who goes there ?" exclaims the sentry j 
' ' When the sun has once gone down 

No one ever makes an entry 
Into this here fortified town !" 

Shouted thus the watchful Sneezoff ; 

But, ere any one replied, 
Wretched youth ! he fired his piece ofT, 

Started, staggered, groaned, and died ! 



XV. 

[How the Cossacks rushed in suddenly and took the citie. 
— Of the Cossack troops, and of their manner of 
burning, murdering, and ravishing. — How they burned 
the whole citie down, save the church, whereof the 
bells begnn lo ring.] 

Ah, full well might the sentinel cry, " Who goes 

there ?" 
But echo was frightened too much to declare. 
Who goes there ? who goes there ? Can any one 

swear 
To the number of sands sur les bonis de la mc}'. 
Or the whiskers of D'Orsay count down to a hair ? 
As well might you tell of the sands the amount, 
Or number each hair in each curl of the Count, 
As ever proclaim the number and name 



94 BALLADS. 

Of the hundreds and thousands that up the wa\ 

came ! 
Down, down the knaves poured with fire and with 

sword : 
There were thieves from the Danube and rogues 

from the Don ; 
There were Turks and Wallacks, and shouting 

Cossacks ; 
Of all nations and regions, and tongues and 

religions — 
jew, Christian, idolater, Frank, Mussulman : 
Ah, a horrible sight was Kioff that night ! 
The gates were all taken — no chance e'en of flight ; 
And with torch and with axe the bloody Cossacks 
Went hither and thither a-hunting in ppxks : 
They slashed and they slew both Christian and 

Jew — 
Women and children, they slaughtered them too. 
Some, saving their throats, plunged into the moats, 
Or the river — but oh, they had burned all the 

boats ! 

* * * * * 

But here let us pause — for I can't pursue further 
This scene of rack, ravishment, ruin, and murther. 
Too well did the cunning old Cossack succeed ! 
His plan of attack was successful indeed ! 
The night was his own — the town it was gone ; 
'Twas a heap still a-burning of timber and stone. 
One building alone had escaped from the fires. 
Saint Sophy's fair church, v/ith its steeples and 
spires. 

Calm, stately, and white. 

It stood in the light ; 
And as if 'twould defy all the conqueror's power,— 

As if naught had occurred, 

Might clearly be heard 
The chimes ringing soberly every half-hour ! 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC. 95 



[How the Cossack chief bade them burn the church toe. — 
How they stormed it : and of Hyacinth, his anger 
thereat.] 

The city was defunct— silence succeeded 

Unto its last fierce agonizing yells ; 
And then it was the conqueror first heeded 

The sound of these calm bells. 
Furious toward his aides-de-camp he turns. 

And (speaking as if Byron's works he knew) 
" Villains !" he fiercely cries, " the city burns. 

Why not the temple too ? 
Burn me yon church, and murder all within !" 

The Cossacks thundered at the outer door ; 
And Father Hyacinth, who heard the din, 
(And thought himself and brethren in distress, 
Deserted by their lady patroness) 

Did to her statue turn, and thus his woes out- 
pour. 

XVII. 

[His prayer to the Saint Sophia, — The statue suddenlie 
speaks ; but is interrupted by the breaking in of the 
Cossacks. — Of Hyacinth, his courageous address: 
and preparation for dying. — Saint Sophia, her speech. 
— She gets on the priot's shoulder straddleback, and 
bids him run.] 

■' And is it thus, O falsest of the saints, 

Thou hearest our complaints ? 
Tell me, did ever my attachment falter 

To serve thy altar ? 
Was not thy name, ere ever I did sleep, 

The last upon my lip ? 
Was not thy name the very first that broke 

From me when I awoke ? 
Have I not tried with fasting, flogging, penance, 

And mortified countenance 



96 BALLADS. 

For to find favor, Sophy, in thy sight ? 

And lo ! this night. 
Forgetful of my prayers and thine own promise. 

Thou turnest from us ; 
Lettest the heathen enter in our city. 

And, without pity, 
Murder our burghers, seize upon their spouses, 

Burn down their houses ! 
Is sucli a breach of faith to be endured ? 

See what a lurid 
Light from the insolent invader's torches 

Shines on your porches ! 
E'en now, with thundering battering-ram and 
hammer 

And hideous clamor, 
With axemen, swordsmen, pikemen, billmen, 
bowmen, 

The conquering foemen, 
O Sophy ! beat your gate about your ears, 

Alas ! and here's 
A humble company of pious men, 

Like muttons in a pen, 
"Whose souls shall quickly from their bodies be 
thrusted. 

Because in you they trusted. 
Do you not know the Calmuc chief's desires — 

Kill all the friars ! 
And you, of all the saints most false and fickle. 

Leave us in this abominable pickle." 
" Rash Hyacinthus !" 

(Here to the astonishment of all her backers, 
Saint Sophy, opening wide her wooden jaws. 
Like to a pair of German walnut-crackers, 
Began), " I did not think you had been thus, — 
O monk of little faith ! Is it because 
A rascal scum of filthy Cossack heathen 
Besiege our town, that you distrust in iiic, then ? 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC. 97 

Think'st thou that I, who in a former day 
Did walk across the sea of Marmora 
(Not mentioning, for shortness, other seas), — 
That I, who h-kimiued tlie broad Borysthenes, 
Without so much as wetting- of my toes. 
Am frightened at a set of men like tJiose? 
I have a mind to leave you to your fate : 
Such cowardice as this my scorn inspires." 

Saint Sophy was here 

Cut short in her words, — 
For at this very moment in tumbled the gate,. 
And with a wild cheer, 

And a clashing of swords, 
Swift through the church porches, 
With a waving of torches, 
And a shriek and a yell 
Like the devils of hell. 
With pike and with axe 
In rushed the Cossacks, — 
In rushed the Cossacks, crying, " Murder the 

FRIARS !" 

Ah ! what a thrill felt Hyacinth, 

When he heard that villainous shout Calmuc ! 
Now, thought he, my trial beginneth ; 

Saints, O give me courage and pluck ! 
" Courage, boys, 'tis useless to funk !" 

Thus unto the friars he began : 
' ■ Never let it be said that a monk 

Is not likewise a gentleman. 
Though the patron saint of the church. 

Spite of all that we've done and we've pray'd, 
Leaves us wickedly here in the lurch. 

Hang it, gentlemen, who's afraid ?" 

As thus the gallant Hyacinthus spoke, 
He, with an air as easy and as free as 



98 BALLADS. 

If the quick-coming murder were a joke, 
P'olded his robes ai-ound his sides, and took 
Place under sainted Sophy's legs of oak. 
Like Ciesar at the statue of Pompeius. 
The monks no leisure had about to look 
(Each being absorbed in his particular case), 
Else had they seen with what celestial grace 
A wooden smile stole o'er the saint's mahogany 
face. 

"Well done, well done, Hyacinthus, my son !" 

Thus spoke the sainted statue. 
" Though you doubted me in the hour of need. 
And spoke of me very rude indeed, 
You deserve good luck for showing such pluck, 

And I won't be angry at you.'' 

The monks by-standing, one and all, 
Of this wondrous scene beholders, 
To this kind promise listened content. 
And couldn't contain their astonishment, 
When Saint Sophia moved and went 
Down from her wooden pedestal, 

And twisted her legs, sure as eggs is eggs, 
Round Hyacinthus' shoulders ! 

*' Ho I forward," cries Sophy, "there's no time 

for waiting, 
The Coss:icks are breaking the very last gate in ; 
See, the glare of their torches shines red through 

the grating ; 
We've still the back door, and two minutes 

or more. 
Now, boys, now or never, we must make for the 

river, 
For we only are safe on the opposite shore. 
Run swiftly to-day, lads, if ever you ran, — 
Put out your best leg, Hyacinthus, my man ; 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC. 99 

And I'll lay five to two that you carry us through, 
Only scamper as fast as you can." 

xviii. 

PH^ runneth and the Tartars after him.— How the fri- 

'^arss;eat;d and the pursuers fixed arrows mto ihe.r 

tavb-Hov;, at the last gasp, the friars won, and 

jumped mto Borysthenes fluvius.J 

Away went the priest through the little back 

door, . , , 

And light on his shoulders the image he bore : 
I'he honest old priest was not punished the 
least, . , 

Though the image was eight feet, and he meas- 
ured four. . 1 • 4. M 
Away went the prior, and the monks at his tail 
Went snorting, and puffing, and panting full sail 
And just as the last at the back door had 
passed. 
In furious hunt behold at the front 
The Tartars so fierce, with their terrib e cheers ; 
With axes, and halberts, and muskets, and 

spears. 
With torches a-flaming the chapel now came m. 
They tore up the mass-book, they stamped on the 

They puHed^'the gold crucifix down from the 

altar ; . , , . i , i ._ 

The vestments they burned with their blasphem- 
ous fires, ^ , , 
And many cried,^ " Curse on them ! where are 

the friars ?" , . r 

When loaded with plunder, yet seeking for more, 
One chanced to fling open the little back door. 
Spied out the friars' white robes and long shad- 
ows , , 
In the moon, scampering over the meadows. 



lOO BALLADS. 

And stopped the Cossacks in the midst of their 
arsons, 

By crying out lustily, "There go the par- 
sons !" 

With a whoop and a yell, and a scream and a 
shout. 

At once the whole murderous body turned out ; 

And swift as the hawk pounces down on the 
pigeon, 

Pursued the poor short-winded men of religion. 

"When the sound of that cheering came to the 
monks' hearing, 
O Heaven ! how the poor fellows panted and 
blew ! 
At fighting not cunning, unaccustomed to run- 
ning, 
When the Tartars came up, what the deuce 
should they do ? 
" They'll make us all martyrs, those blood-thirsty 
Tartars !" 
Quoth fat Father Peter to fat Father Hugh. 
The shouts they came clearer, the foe they drew 
nearer ; 
Oh, how the bolts whistled, and how the lights 
shone ! 
" I cannot get further, this running is murther ; 
Come carry me, some one !" cried big Father 
John. 
And even the statue, grew frightened : " Od rat 
you !" 
It cried, " Mr. Prior, I wish you'd get on !" 
On tugged the good friar, but nigher and nigher 
Appeared the tierce Russians, with sword and 

with fire. 
On tugged the good prior at Saint Sophy's de- 
sire, — 



THE GREAT COSSACK EPIC. lOI 

A scramble through bramble, through mud, and 

through mire, 
The swift arrows' whizziness causing a dizziness. 
Nigh done his business, fit to expire, 
Father Hyacinth tugged, and the monks they 

tugged after : 
The foemen pursued with a horrible laughter. 
And hurl'd their long spears round the poor 

brethren's ears 
So true, that next day in the coat of each priest. 
Though never a wound was given, there were 

found 

A dozen arrows at least. 

Now the chase seemed at its worst, 
Prior and monks were fit to burst ; 
Scarce you knew the which was first, 

Or pursuers or pursued ; 
When the statue, by Heaven's grace, 
Suddenly did -change the face 
Of this interesting race. 

As a saint, sure, only could. 

For as the jockey who at Epsom rides. 

When that his steed is spent and punished 
sore, 
Diggeth his heels into the courser's sides. 

And thereby makes him run one or two fur- 
longs more ; 
Even thus, betwixt the eighth rib and the 
ninth, 
The saint rebuked the prior, that weary creeper ; 
Fresh strength into his limbs her kicks im- 
parted. 
One bound he made, as gay as when he started. 
Yes, with his brethren clinging at his cloak. 
The statue gn hi^ shoulders — fit to choke — 



I02 BALLADS. 

One most tremendous bound made Hyacinth, 
And soused friars, statue, and all, slapdash in- 
to the Dnieper ! 

XIX. 

[And how the Russians saw the statue get off Hyacinth 
his back, and sit down with the friars on Hyacinth 
his cloak.— How in this manner of boat they sayled 
away.] 

And when the Russians, in a fiery rank. 

Panting and fierce, drew up along the shore ; 
(For here the vain pursuing they forbore, 
Nor cared they to surpass the river's bank,) 
Then, looking from the rocks and rushes dank, 

A sight they witnessed never seen before. 
And which, with its accompaniments glorious, 
Is writ i' the golden book, or liber aureus. 

Plump in the Dneiper flounced the friar and 
friends, — 
They dangling round his neck, he fit to choke, 
When suddenly his most miraculous cloak 
Over the billowy waves itself extends, 
Down from his shoulders quietly descends 

The venerable Sophy's statue of oak ; 
Which, sitting down upon the cloak so ample, 
Bids all the brethren follow its example ! 

Each at her bidding sat, and sat at ease ; 
The statue 'gan a gracious conversation, 
And (waving to the foe a salutation) 

Sail'd with her wondering happy proteges 

Gaily adown the wide Borysthenes, 

Until they came unto some friendly nation. 

And when the heathen had at length grown shy 
of 



riTMARSirS CARMEN LILLIENSE. 1 03 

Their conquest, she one day came back again to 
Kioff. 

XX. 

[Finis, or the end.] 

Think not, O Reader, that we're laugh- 
ing AT YOU ; 

VOU MAY GO TO KlOFF NOW AND SEE THE 
STATUE ! 



TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE. 

Lille, Sept. 2, 1S43, 
My heart is weary, my peace is gone. 

How shall I e'er my woes reveal? 
I have no money, I lie in pawn, 

A stranger iti tJie town of Lille. 

I. 

With twenty pounds but three weeks since 
From Paris forth did Titrnarsh wheel, 

I thought myself as rich a prince 
As beggar poor I'm now at Lille. 

Confiding in my ample means — 

In troth, I was a happy chiel ! 
I passed the gates of Valenciennes, 

I never thought to come by Lille. 

I never thought my twenty pounds 

Some rascal knave would dare to steal ; 

I gayly passed the Belgic bounds 

At Quicvrain. twenty miles from Lille. 



104 BALLADS. 

To Antwerp town I hastened post, 
And as 1 took my evening meal 
I felt my pouch, — my purse was lost, 

Heaven ! Why came I not by Lille? 

I straightway called for ink and pen, 
To grandmamma I made appeal ; 
Meanwhile a loan of guineas ten 

1 borrowed from a friend so leal. 

I got the cash from grandmamma 

(Her gentle heart my woes could feel), 

But where I went and what I saw, 
What matters ? Here 1 am at Lille. 

My heart is weary, my peace is gone. 
How shall I e'er my woes reveal? 

I have no cash, I lie in pawn, 
A stranger in the town of Lille. 



II. 



To stealing I can never come. 

To pawn my watch I'm too genteel : 

Besides, I left my watch at home — 
How could I pawn it then at Lille ? 

" La note," at times the guests will say^ 
I turn as white as cold boil'd veal ; 

I turn and look another way, 
/ dare not ask the bill at Lille. 

I dare not to the landlord say, 

" Good sir, I cannot pay your bill ;" 

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, 
And is quite proud I stay at Lille. 



TI TMARSH 'S CARMEN LILLIENSE. 1 05 

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, 
Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, 

And so he serves me every day 

The best of meat and drink in Lille. 

Yet when he looks me in the face 

I blush as red as cochineal ; 
And think, did he but know my case, 

How changed he'd be, my host of Lille, 

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, 
How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? 

I have no money, I lie in pawn, 
A stranger in the town of Lille. 



III. 

The sun bursts out in furious blaze, 
I perspirate from head to heel ; 

I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise — 
How can I, without cash at Lille ? 

I pass in sunshine burning hot 
By caf6s where in beer they deal ; 

I think how pleasant were a pot, 
A frothing pot of beer of Lille ! 

What is yon house with walls so thick, 
All girt around with guard and grille ? 

O gracious gods ! it makes me sick. 
It is t\\Q prison-house of Lille ! 

cursed prison strong and barred, 
It does my very blood congeal ! 

1 tremble as I pass the guard. 
And quit that ugly part of Lille. 



Io6 BALLADS. 

The church-door beggar whines and prays 

I turn away at his appeal : 
Ah, church-door beggar ! go thy ways ! 

You're not the poorest man in Lille. 

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, 
How shall I e'er my woes reveal ? 

I have no money, I lie in pawn, 
A stranger in the town of Lille. 



IV. 

Say, shall 1 to yon Flemish church, 
And at a Popish altar kneel ? 

O, do not leave me in the lurch, — 
I'll cry, ye patron-saints of Lille ! 

Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, 
Ye martyrs slain for mortal v/eal, 

Look kindly down ! before you stoops 
The miserablest man in Lille, 

And lo ! as I beheld with awe 

A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real), 

It smiled, and turned to grandmamma 
It did ! and I had hope in Lille ! 



'Twas five o'clock, and I could eat, 
Although I could not pay my meal : 

I hasten back into the street 

Where lies my inn, the best in Lille. 

"What see I on my table stand, — 
A letter with a well-known seal ? 

'Tis grandmamma's ! I know her hand, 
"To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille." 



JBAMES OF BUCKLEY SQU^IRE. 1 07 

I feel a choking in my throat, 

I pant and stagger, faint and reel ! 

It is— it is — a ten-pound note, 

And I'm no more in pawn at Lille ! 

[He soesoff by the diligence that evening, and is restored 
to the boi^om of his happy family.] 



JEAMES OF BUCKLEY SQUARE. 

A HELIGY. 

Come all ye gents vot cleans the plate, 

Come all ye ladies, maids so fair — 
Vile I a story vill relate 

Of cruel Jeames of Buckley Square. 
A tighter lad, it is confest, 

Neer valked with powder in his air, 
Or vore a nosegay in his breast. 

Than andsum Jeames of Buckley Square. 

O Evns ! it was the best of sights. 

Behind his Master's coach and pair, 
To see our Jeames in red plush tights, 

A driving hoff from Buckley Square. 
He vel became his hagwilletts. 

He cocked his at with such a hair ; 
His calves and viskers vas such pets, 

That hall loved Jeames of Buckley Square, 

He pleased the hup-stairs folks as veil, 
And o ! I vithered vith despair. 

Missis vouldx'm<y the parler bell. 

And call up Jeames in Buckley Square. 



Io8 BALLADS. 

Both beer and sperrits he abhord, 
(Sperrits and beer I can't a bear,) 

You would have thought hevas a lord 
Down in our All in Buckley Square. 

Last year he visper'd, " Mary Ann, 

Ven I've an under'd pound to spare, 
To take a public is my plan. 

And leave this hojous Buckley Square." 
O how my gentle heart did bound, 

To think that I his name should bear ! 
*' Dear Jeames," says I, " I've twenty pound," 

And gev them him in Buckley Square. 

Our master vas a City gent. 

His name's in railroads everywhere, 
And lord, vot lots of letters vent 

Betwigst his brokers and Buckley Square ; 
My Jeames it was the letters took, 

And read them all (I think it's fair), 
And took a leaf from Master's book, 

As hothers do in Buckley Square. 

Encouraged with my twenty pound, 

Of which poor / was unavare, 
He wrote the Companies all round. 

And signed hisself from Buckley Square. 
And how John Porter used to grin, 

As day by day, share after share, 
Came railvay letters pouring in, 

"J. Plush, Esquire, in Buckley Square. 

Our servants' All was in a rage — 

Scrip, stock, curves, gradients, bull and 
bear, 

Vith butler, coachman, groom and page, 
Vas all the talk in Buckley Square. 



MV SISTER'S PORTRAIT. 109 

But O ! imagine vot I felt 

Last Vensday veek as ever were ; 

I gits a letter, which I spelt 

" Miss M. A. Hoggins, Buckley Square." 

He sent me back my money true — 

He sent me back my lock of air, 
And said, " My dear, I bid ajew 

To Mary Hann and Buckley Square. 
Think not to marry, foolish Hann, 

With people who your betters are ; 
James Plush is now a gentleman, 

And you — a cook in Buckley Square. 

" I've thirty thousand guineas won. 

In six short months, by genus rare 
You little thought what Jeames was on. 

Boor Mary Ilann, in Buckley Square. 
I've thirty thousand guineas net. 

Powder and plush I scorn to vear ; 
And so. Miss Mary Hann, forget 

For hever Jeames of Buckley Square." 



LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT. 

BY THE LORD SOUTHDOWN. 

The castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the 

lea, 
Where the cliffs of bonny Diddlesex rise up from 

out the sea : 
I stood upon the donjon keep and view'd the 

country o'er, 
I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or 

more. 



no BALLADS. 

I stood upon the donjon keep — it is a sacred 

place — 
Where floated for eight hundred years the banner 

of my race ; 
Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure 

field : 
There ne'er was nobler cognizance on knightly 

warrior's shield. 

The first time England saw the shield 'twas round 

a Norman neck, 
On board a ship from Valery, King William was 

on deck. 
A Norman lance the colors wore, in Hastings' 

fatal fray — 
St. Willi bald for Eareacres ! 'twas double gules 

that day ! 
O Heaven and sweet St. Willibald ! in many a 

battle since 
A loyal-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince! 
At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at 

Poictiers, 
The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on 

the spears ! 

'Twas pleasant in the battle-shock to hear our 

war-cry ringing : 
O grant me. sweet St. Willibald, to listen to such 

singing ! 
Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the 

foe before us, 
And thirty score of British bows kept twanging to 

the chorus ! 
O knights, my noble ancestors ! and shall I never 

hear 
St. Willibald for Bareacres through battle ringing 

clear ? 



LITTLE BILLEE. Ill 

I'd cut me off this strong right hand a single hour 

lo ride, 
And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at 

your side ! 

Dash down, dash down, yon mandolin, beloved 

sister mine ! 
Those blushing lips may never sing the glories 

of our line : 
Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of 

churls. 
The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our 

Earls. 
Sing not, sing not, my Angeline ! in days so 

base and vile, 
'Tv/ere sinful to be happy, 'tv/ere sacrilege to 

smile. 
I'll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless 

hob 
I'll muse on other days, and wish— and wish I 

were — A Snob. 



LITTLE BILLEE.* 

Air — " II y avait un petit navire." 

There were three sailors of Bristol city 
Who took a boat and went to sea. 

But first with beef and captain's biscuits 
And pickled pork they loaded she. 



* As difterent versions of this popular song; have bet n set 
to music and sung, no apology is needed for the insertion in 
these pages of what is considered to be the correct version. 



112 BALLADS. 

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, 
And the youngest he was little Billee. 

Now when they got as far as the Equator 
They'd nothing left but one split pea. 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

" I am extremely hungaree." 
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 

" We've nothing left, us must eat we." 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy. 

" \Vith one another we shouldn't agree ! 
There's little I5ill, he's young and tender, 

We're old and tough, so let's cat he. 

*' Oh ! Billy, we're going to kill and eat you, 
So undo the button of your chemie." 

When Bill received this information 
lie used his pocket handkerchie. 

" First let me say my catechism, 

Which my poor mammy taught to me." 

" Make haste, make haste." says guzzling Jimmy, 
While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. 

So Billy went up to the main-top-gallant mast. 
And down he fell on his bended knee. 

He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment 
When up he jumps. " There's land I see ; 

"Jerusalem and Madagascar, 

And North and South Amerikee : 
There's the British fiag a riding at anchor, 

With Admiral Napier, K.C.B." 

So when they got aboard of the Admiral's 
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee , 



THE END OF THE PLAY. II3 

But as for little Bill he made him 
The Captain of a Seventy-three. 



THE END OF THE PLAY. 

The olav is done ; the curtain drops, 

Slow falling to the prompter's bell : 
A moment yet the actor stops, 

And looks around, to say farewell. 
It is an irksome word and task ; 

And, when he's laughed and said his say. 
He shows, as he removes the mask, 

A face that's anything but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends, 

Let's close it with a parting rhyme, 
And pledge a hand to all young friends, 

As fits the merry Christmas time.* 
On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. 

That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; 
Good night ! with honest gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway ! 

Good night '.—I'd say, the griefs, the joys, 

Just 'ninted in this mimic page. 
The triumphs and defeats of boys, 

Are but repeated in our age. 
I'd say, your woes were not less keen, 

Your hopes m.ore vain, than t'nose of men ; 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

* Thc^e verses were printed at the end of a Christmas 
000k (1S48-9), " Dr. Birch and his Young Friends. 



114 BALLADS. 

I'd say, we suffer and we strive. 

Not less nor more as men than boys ; 
With grizzled beards at forty-five, 

As erst at twelve in corduroys. 
And if, in time of sacred youth, 

We learned at home to love and pray, 
Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth 

May never wholly pass away. 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I'd say, how fate may change and shift ; 
The prize be sometimes with the fool, 

The race not always to the swift. 
The strong may yield, the good may fall, 

The great man be a vulgar clown, 
The knave be lifted over all. 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 

Who knows the inscrutable design ? 

Blessed be He who took and gave ! 
Why should your motlier, Charles, not mine, 

Be weeping at her darling's grave ? * 
We bow to Heaven that will'd it so. 

That darkly rules the fate of all. 
That sends the respite or the blow, 

That's free to give, or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit : 

Who brought him to that mirth and state ? 
His betters, see, below him sit. 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 

To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? 
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel. 

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

* C. B. ob. 29th November, 1848, set. 4^. 



THE END OF THE PLAY. Il5 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance, 

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed ; 
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 

And longing passion unfulfilled. 
Amen ! whatever fate be sent, 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow. 
Although the head with cares be bent, 

And ''whitened with the winter snow. 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill. 

Let young and old accept their part, 
And bow before the Awful Will, 

And bear it with an honest heart. 
Who misses or who wins the prize. 

Go, lose or conquer as you can ; 
But if you fail, or if you rise. 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young ! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays) ; 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days : 
The shepherds heard it overhead— 

The joyful angels raised it then : 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth to gentle men. 

My song, save this, is little worth ; 

I lay the weary pen aside, 
And wish you health, and love, and mirth, 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
As fits the holy Christmas birth. 

Be this, good friends, our carol still- 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 

To men of gentle will. 



BALLADS. 



VANITAS VANITATUM. 

How spake of old the Royal Seer? 

(His text is one I love to treat on.) 
This life of ours, he said, is sheer 

Mataiotes Mataioteton. 

O Student of this gilded Book, 

Declare, while musing on its pages, 

If truer words were ever spoke 
By ancient or by modern sages ? 

The various authors' names but note,* 

French, ^Spanish, English, Russians, Germans 

And in the volume polyglot 

Sure you may read a hundred sermons ! 

What histories of life are here. 

More wild than all romancers' stones ; 

What wondrous transformations queer, 
What homilies on human glories ! 

What theme for sorrow or for scorn ! 

What chronicle of Fate's surprises — 
Of adverse fortune nobly borne. 

Of chances, changes, ruins, rises ! 

Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke. 
How strange a record here is written 1 

Of honors, dealt as if in joke ; 
Of brave desert unkindly smitten. 



* Between a page by Jules Janin, and a poem by the 

Turkish Ambassador, in Madame de R 's album, 

containing the autographs of kings, princes, poets, mar- 
shals, musicians, diplomatists, statesmen, artists, and men 
of letters of all nations. 



VAN IT AS VANITATUM. II 7 

How low men were, and how tliey rise! 

How high they were, and how they tumble ! 

vanity of vanities ! 

laughable, pathetic jumble \ 

Here between honest Janin's joke 
And his Turk Excellency's firman, 

1 write my name upon the book : 

1 write my name — and end my sermon. 



O vanity of vanities ! 

How wayward the decrees of Fate are ; 
How very weak the very wise. 

How very small the very great are ! 

What mean these stale moralities, 

Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble? 
Why rail against the great and wise, 

And tire us with your ceaseless grumble ? 

Pray choose us out another text, 

O man morose and narrow-minded ! 

Come turn the page— I read the next. 
And then the next, and still I find it. 

Read here how Wealth aside was thrust, 

And Folly set in place exalted ; 
How Princes footed in the dust. 

While lackeys in the saddle vaulted. 

Though thrice a thousand years are past 
Since David's son, the sad and splendid, 

The weary King Ecclesiast, 

Upon his awful tablets penned it,— 



BALLADS. 

Methinks the text is never stale, 
And life is every day renewing 

Fresh comments on the old old tale 
Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin. 

Hark to the Preacher, preaching still 
He lifts his voice and cries his sermon, 

Here at St. Peter's of Cornhill, 

As yonder on the Mount of Hermon : 

For you and me to heart to take 
(O dear beloved brother readers) 

To-day as when the good King spake 
Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars. 



LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY, 



WHAT MAKES MY HEART TO THRILL 
AND GLOW? 

THE MAYFAIR LOVE-SONG. 

Winter and summer, night and morn, 
I languish at this table dark ; 

My office window has a corn- 
er looks into St, James's Park. 

I hear the foot-guards' bugle-horn, 
'J'heir tramp upon parade I mark ; 

I am a gentleman forlorn, 
I am a P^oreign-Office Clerk. 

My toils, my pleasures, every one, 

I find are stale, and dull, and slow ; 
And yesterday, when work was done, 

I felt myself so sad and low, 
I could have seized a sentry's gun 

My Vv'earied brains out out to blow. 
What is it makes my blood to run ? 

What makes my heart to beat and glov.' ? 

My notes of hand are burnt, perhaps ? 

Some one has paid my tailor's bill ? 
No : every morn the tailor raps ; 

My I O U's are extant still. 
I still am prey of debt and dun ; 

My elder brother's stout and well. 



I20 LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY. 

What is it makes my blood to run ? 

What makes my heart to glow and swell ? 

I know my chief's distrust and hate ; 

He says I'm lazy and I shirk. 
Ah ! had I genius like the late 

Right Honorable Edmund Burke ! 
My chance of all promotion's gone, 

I know it is, — he hates me so. 
What is it makes my blood to run, 

And all my heart to swell and glow ? 

Why, why is all so bright and gay ? 

There is no change, there is no cause ; 
My office-time I found to-day 

Disgusting as it ever was. 
At three, I went and tried the Clubs, 

And yawned and saunter'd to and fro ; 
And now my heart jumps up and throbs. 

And all my soul is in a glow. 

At half-past four I had the cab ; 
I drove as hard as I could go. 

The London sky was dirty drab, 
And dirty brown the London snow. 

And as I rattled in a cant- 
er down by dear old Bolton Row, 

A something made my heart to pant, 
And caused my cheek to flush and glow. 

W^hat could it be that made me find 

Old Jawkins pleasant at the Club ? 
Why was it that I laughed and grinned 

At whist, although I lost the rub ? 
What was it made me drink like mad 

Thirteen small glasses of Cura5ao ? 
That made my inmost heart so glad, 

And every fibre thrill and glow ? 



THE ROCKS. 121 

She's home again ! she's home, she's home ! 

Away all cares and griefs and pain ; 
I knew she would— she's back from Rome ; 

She's home again ! she's home again ! 
"The family's gone abroad," they said, 

September last— they told me so ; 
Since then my lonely heart is dead, 

IMy blood, I think's forgot to flow. 

She's home again ! Away all care ! 

O fairest form the world can show ! 
O beaming eyes ! O golden hair ! 

O tender voice, that breathes so low ! 
O gentlest, softest, purest heart ! 

O joy, O hope !— " My tiger, ho ! " 
Fitz-Clarence said ; we saw him start — 

lie galloped down to Bolton Row. 



THE GIIAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE. 
SONG. 

THE ROCKS. 

I WAS a timid little antelope ; 

My home was in the rocks, the lonely rocks. 

I saw the hunters scouring on the plain ; 
I lived among the rocks, the lonely rocks. 

I was a-thirsty in the summer-heat ; 

I ventured to the tents beneath the rocks. 

Zuleikah ! brought me water from the well ; 
Since then I have been faithless to the rocks. 



122 LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY. 

I saw her face reflected in the well ; 

Her camels since have marched into the rocks. 

I look to see her image in the well ; 
I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes. 
My mother is alone among the rocks. 

THE MERRY BARD. 

ZuLEiKAH ! The young Agas in the bazaar are 
slim-waisted and wear yellow slippers. I am old 
and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and the hairs 
of my beard are mostly gray. Praise be to 
Allah ! I am a meny bard. 

There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's 
chief wife. Praise be to Allah ! Pie has emer- 
alds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I am a merry 
bard. PLe deafens me with his diabolical scream- 
ing. 

There is a little brown bird in the basket- 
maker's cage. Praise be to Allah ! lie ravishes 
my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard. 

The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a 
Bulbul. 

I am a little brown Bulbul, Come and listen 
in the moonlight. Praise be to Allah ! I am a 
merry bard. 

THE CAIQUE. 

Yonder to the kiosk, beside the creek, 
Paddle the swift caique. 

Thou brawny oarsman with the sun-burnt cheek, 
Quick ! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul 
speak. 



My NORA. 123 

Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores, 
Swift bending to your oars. 
I'encath the melancholy sycamores, 
Hark ! wliat a ravishing note the love-lorn Bulbul 
pours ! 

Behold, the boughs scera quivering with delight, 
The stars themselves more bright. 
As mid the waving branches out of sight 
The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the 
night. 

Under the boughs I sat and listened still, 

I could not have my fill. 

" How com.es," I said, " such music to his bill ? 

Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill." 

"Once I was dumb," then did the Bird disclose, 
" But looked upon the Rose ; 
And in the garden where the loved one grows, 
I straightway did begin sweet music to compose," 

" O bird of song, there's one in this caique 
The Rose would also seek, 
So he might learn like you to love and speak." 
Then answered me the bird of dusky beak, 
" The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on 
Leilah's cheek." 



MY NORA, 

Beneath the gold acacia buds 
My gentle Nora sits and broods, 
Far, far away in Boston woods 

My gentle Nora ! 



124 LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY. 

I see the tear-drop in her e'e. 
Her bosom's heaving tenderly ; 
I know — I know she thinks of me, 
My darling Nora ! 

And where am I ' My love, whilst thou 
Sitt'st sad beneath the acacia bough, 
Where pearl's on neck, and wreath on brow, 
I stand, my Nora ! 

Mid carcanet and coronet. 
Where joy-lamps shine and flowers are set — 
Where England's chivalry are met, 
Behold me Nora ! 

In this strange scene of revelry, 
Amidst this gorgeous chivalry, 
A form I saw was like to thee. 

My love — my Nora ! 

She paused amidst her converse glad ; 
The lady saw tliat I was sad, 
She pitied the poor lonely lad, — 

Dost love her, Nora ? 

In sooth, she is a lovely dame, 
A lip of red, and eye of flame, 
And clustering golden locks, the same 
As thine, dear Nora ! 

Her glance is softer than the dawn's, 
Her foot is lighter than the fawns, 
Her breast is whiter than the swan's, 
Or thine, my Nora ! 

Oh, gentle breast to pity me ! 
Oh, lovely Ladye Emily ! 
Till death-till death I'll think of thee— 
Of thee and Nora ! 



SERENADE. 1 25 



TO MARY. 

I SEEM, in the midst of the crowd, 

The lightest of all ; 
My laughter rings cheery and loud 

In banquet and ball. 
My lip hath its smiles and its sneers, 

For all men to see ; 
But my soul, and my truth, and my tears, 

Are for thee, are for thee ! 

Around me they flatter and fawn — 

The young and the old, 
The fairest are ready to pawn 

Their hearts for my gold. 
They sue me — I laugh as I spurn 

The slaves at my knee ; 
But in faith and in fondness I turn 

Unto thee, unto thee ! 



SERENADE. 

Now the toils of day are over, 
And the sun hath sunk to rest, 

Seeking, like a fiery lover, 

The bosom of the blushir^g west 

The faithful night keeps watch and ward, 
Raising the moon her silver shield, 

And summoning the stars to guard 
The slumbers of my fair Mathilde ! 



126 LOVE-SONGS MADE EASY. 

The faithful night ! Now all things lie 
Hid by her mantle dark and dim, 

In pious hope I hither hie, 

And humbly chant mine evening hymn. 

Thou art my prayer, my saint, my shrine ! 

(For never holy pilgrim kneel'd 
Or wept at feet more pure than thine). 

My virgin love, my sweet Mathilde ! 



FIVE GERMAN DITTIES, 



A TRAGIC STORY. 

BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO. 

" .'s war Einer, dem's zu Herzen gieng." 

There lived a sage in days of yore, 
And he a handsome pigtail wore ; 
But wondered much and sorrowed more 
Because it hung behind him. 

He mused upon this curious case, ^ 

And swore he'd change the pigtail's place, 

And have it hanging at his face, 

Not dangling there behind him. 

Says he, " The mystery I've found, — 
I'll turn me round," — he turned him round i 
But still it hung behind him. 

Then round, and round, and out and in, 
All day the puzzled sage did spin ; 
In vain — it mattered not a pin, — 

The pigtail hung behind him. 

And right, and left, and round about. 
And up, and down, and in, and out. 
He turned ; but still the pigtail stout 
Hung steadily behind hiui. 



128 FIVE GERMAN DITTIES. 

And though his efforts never slack, 

And though he twist, and whirl, and tack, 

Alas ! still faithful to his back 

The pigtail hangs behind him. 



THE CHAPLET. 

FROM UHLAND. 

" Es pfliickte Bliimlein mannigfalt." 

A LITTLE girl through field and wood 
Went plucking flowerets here and there, 

When suddenly beside her stood 
A lady wondrous fair. 

The lovely lady smiled, and laid 
A wreath upon the maiden's brow : 

" Wear it ; 'twill blossom soon," she said, 
"Although 'tis leafless now." 

The little maiden older grew 

And wandered forth of moonlight eves. 
And sighed and loved as maids will do ; 

When, lo ! her wreath bore leaves. 

Then was our maid a wife, and hung 
Upon a joyful bridegroom's bosom ; 

When from the garland's leaves there sprung 
Fair store of blossom. 

And presently a baby fair 

Upon her gentle breast she reared ; 
When midst the wreath that bound her hair 

Rich golden fruit appeared. 



THE KING ON THE TOWER. 1 29 

But when her love lay cold in death, 
Sunk in the black and silent tomb, 

All sere and withered was the wreath 
That wont so bright to bloom. 

Yet still the withered wreath she wore ; 

She wore it at her dying hour ; 
When, lo ! the wondrous garland bore 

Both leaf, and fruit, and flower ! 



THE KING ON THE TOWER. 

FROM UHLAND. 

'*Da liegen sie alle, die grauen H5hen." 

The cold gray hills they bind me around, 
The darksome valleys lie sleeping below, 

But the winds, as they pass o'er all this ground, 
Bring me never a sound of woe. 

Oh ! for all I have suffered and striven. 
Care has embittered my cup and my feast ; 

But here is the night and the dark blue heaven, 
And my soul shall be at rest. 

O golden legends writ in the skies ! 

I turn toward you with longing soul, 
And list to the awful harmonies 

Of the Spheres as on they roll. 

My hair is gray and my sight nigh gone ; 

My sword it rusteth upon the wall ; 
Right have I spoken, and right have I done : 

When shall I rest me once for all ? 



130 FIVE GERMAN DITTIES, 

O blessed rest ! O royal night ! 

Wherefore seemeth the time so long 
Till I see yon stars in their fullest light. 

And list to their loudest song ? 



TO A VERY OLD WOMAN. 

LA MOTTE FOUQU^. 

*' Und Du gingst einst, die Myrt' im Haare." 

And thou wert once a maiden fair, 

A blushing virgin warm and young : 
With myrtles wreathed in golden hair, 
And glossy brow that knew no care — 
Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung. 

The golden locks are silvered now, 

The blushing cheek is pale and wan 5 
The spring may bloom, the autumn glow, 
All's one — in chimney corner thou 
Sitt'st shivering on. — 

A moment — and thou sink'st to rest ! 
To wake perhaps an angel blest 

In the bright presence of thy Lord 
Oh, weary is life's path to all ! 
Hard is the strife, and light the fall, 

But wondrous the reward ! 



A CREDO. 131 

A CREDO.' 



For the sole edification 
Of this decent congregation, 
Goodly people, by your grant 
I will sing a holy chant— 

I will sing a holy chant. 
If the ditty sound but oddly, 
'Twas a father, wise and godly, 

Sang it so long ago- 
Then sing as Martin Luther sang : 
•' Who loves not wine, woman, and song. 
He is a fool his whole life long 1 

II. 

He, by custom patriarchal, 
Loved to see the beaker sparkle ; 
And he thought the wine improved, 
Tasted by the lips he loved— 

By the kindly lips he loved. 
Friends, I wish this custom pious 
Duly were observed by us, 

To combine love, song, wme, 
And sing as Martin Luther sang. 
As Doctor Martin Luther sang : 
"Who loves not wine, woman, and song, 
He is a fool his whole life-long ! 

III. 
Who refuses this our Credo, 
And who will not sing as we do, 
Were he holy as John Knox, 
I'd pronounce him heterodox ! 

I'd pronounce him heterodox, 



132 FIVE GERMAN DITTIES. 

And from out this congregation, 
With a solemn commination, 
Banish quick the heretic, 
Who will not sing as Luther sang, 
As Doctor Martin Luther sang : 
" Who loves not wine, woman, and song, 
He is a fool his whole life long !" 



FOUR 
IMITATIONS OF BERANGER. 



LE ROI D'YVETOT. 

Il 6tait un roi d'Yvetot, 

Peu connu dans I'histoire ; 
Se levant tard, se couchant t6t, 

Dormant fort bien sans gloire, 
Et couronn6 par Jeanneton 
D'un simple bonnet de coton, 
Dit-on. 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah! 
Quel bon petit roi c'6tait la ! 
La, la. 

II fesait ses quatre repas 

Dans son palais de chaume, 
Et sur un ane, pas a pas, 

Parcourait son royaume. 
Joyeux, simple et croyant le bien, 
Pour toute garde il n'avait rien 
Qu'un chien. 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c. 

II n'avait de gout onereux 

Qu'une soif un deu vive ; 
Mais, en rendant son peuple heureux, 

II faut bien qu'un roi vive, 



134 IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER. 

Lui-meme a tabic, et sans suppot, 
Sur chaque muid levait un pot 
D'impot. 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ' ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c. 

Aux filles de bonnes maisons 

Comme il avait su plaire, 
Ses sujets avaient cent raisons 

De le nommer leur pere : 
D'ailleurs il ne levait de ban 
Que pour tirer quatre fois I'an 
Au blanc, 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c. 

II n'agrandit point ses etats, 

Fut un voisin commode, 
Et, modele des potentats, 
Prit le plaisir pour code, 
Ce n'est que lorsqu'il expira, 
Que le peuple qui I'enterra 
Pleura. 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah .' &c. 

On conserve encor le portrait 

De ce digne et bon prince ; 

C'est I'enseigne d'un carbaret 

Fameux dans la province. 
Les jours de fete, bien souvent, 
La foule s'ecrie en buvant 
Devant : 
Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ah ! ah ! ah ! ah ! &c. 



THE KING YVETOT. 

There was a king of Yvetot, 
Of whom renown hath little said, 



THE KING OF YVETOT. 1 35 

Who let all thoughts of glory go, 

And dawdled half his days a-bed ; 
And every night, as night came round, 
By Jenny with a nightcap crowned. 
Slept very sound : 
Sing ho, ho, ho ! and he, he, he ! 
That's the kind of king for me. 

And every day it came to pass. 

That four lusty meals made he ; 
And step by step, upon an ass. 

Rode abroad, his realms to see ; 
And wherever he did stir, 
What think you was his escort, sir ? 
Why, an old cur. 
Sing ho, ho, ho ! &c. 

If e'er he went into excess, 

'Twas from a somewhat lively thirst ; 
But he who would his subjects bless, 

Odd's hsh ! — must wet his whistle first ; 
And so from every cask they got, 
Our king did to himself allot 
At least a pot. 
Sing ho, ho ! &c. 

To all the ladies of the land, 

A courteous king, and kind, was he — 
The reason why, you'll understand, 

They named him Pater Patrix. 
Each year he called his fighting m.en. 
And marched a league from home, and then 
Marched back again, 
Sing ho, ho ! &c. 

Neither by force nor false pretence. 
He sought to make his kingdom great, 



136 IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER, 

And made (O princes, learn from hence) — • 

" Live and let live," his rule of state. 
'Twas only when he came to die, 
That his people who stood by, 

Were known to cry. 
Sing ho, ho ! &c. 

The portrait of this best of kings 

Is extant still, upon a sign 
That on a village tavern swings, 

Famed in the country for good wine. 
The people in their Sunday trim. 
Filling their glasses to the brim, 
Look up to him. 
Singing ha, ha, ha ! and he, he, he ! 
That's the sort of king for me. 



THE KING OF BRENTFORD. 

ANOTHER VERSION. 

There was a king in Brentford, — of whom no 

legends tell, 
5iut who. without his glory, —could eat and sleep 

right well. 
His Polly's cotton nightcap, — it was his crown 

of state. 
He slept of evenings early, — and rose of mornings 

late. 

All in a fine mud palace, — each day he took four 

meals, 
And for a guard of honor — a dog ran at his heels. 
Sometimes to view his kingdoms, — rode forth this 

monarch good, 
And then a prancing jackass — he royally bestrod. 



THE KING OF BRENTFORD. 1 37 

There were no costly habits — with which this 
king was curst, 

Except (and where's the harm on't ?) — a some- 
what lively thirst ; 

But people must pay taxes, — and kings must 
have their sport, 

So out of every gallon — His Grace he took a 
quart. 

He pleased the ladies round him, — with manners 

soft and bland ; 
With reason good, they named him — the father 

of his land. 
Each year his mighty armies— marched forth in 

gallant show ; 
Their enemies were targets, — their bullets they 

were tow. 

He vexed no quiet neighbor, — no useless con- 
quest made. 

But by the laws of pleasure — his peaceful realm 
he swayed. 

And in the years he reigned, — through all this 
country wide. 

There was no cause for weeping, — save when 
the good man died. 

The faithful men of Brentford — do still their 

king deplore. 
His portrait yet is swinging — beside an alehouse 

door. 
And topers, tender-hearted, — regard his honest 

phiz. 
And envy times departed, — that knew a reiga 

like his. 



138 IMITATIONS OF BE RANGER. 



LE GRENIER. 

Je viens revoir I'asile oii ma jeunesse 
De la misere a subi les Ie9ons. 
J 'avals vingt ans, une folle maitresse, 
De francs amis et I'amour des chansons. 
Bravant le monde et les sots et les sages, 
Sans avenir, riche de mon printemps, 
Leste et joyeux je montais six etages. 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans ! 

C'est un grenier, point ne veux qu'on I'ignore, 
I^a fut mon lit, bien chetif et bien dur ; 
La fut ma table ; et je retrouve encore 
Trois pieds d'un vers charbonnes sur le mur. 
Apparaissez, plaisirs de mon bel age, 
Que d'un coup d'aile a fustiges le temps : 
Vingt fois pour vous j'ai mis ma montre en gage, 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans \ 

Lisette ici doit surtout apparaitre, 
Vive, jolie, avec un frais chapeau ; 
Deja sa main a I'etroite fenetre 
Suspend son schal, en guise de rideau. 
Sa robe aussi va parer ma couchette ; 
Respecte, Amour, ses plis longs et flottans. 
J'ai su depuis qui payait sa toilette. 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans ! 

A table un jour, jour de grande richesse, 
De mes amis les voix brillaient en choeur, 
Quand jusqu'ici monte un cri d'allegresse : 
A Marengo Bonaparte est vainqueur. 
Le canon gronde ; un autre chant commence ; 
Nous celebrons tant de faits eclatans. 
Les rois jamais n'envahiront la France, 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans ! 



THE GARRET. 139 

Quittons ce toit ou ma raison s'enivre. 
Oh ! quil's sont loin ces jours si regrettes ! 
J'echangerais ce qu'il me reste a vivre 
Contre un des mois qu'ici Dieu m'a comptes, 
Pour rever gloire, amour, plaisir, folie, 
Pour depenser sa vie en peu d'instans, 
D'un long espoir pour la voir embellie. 
Dans un grenier qu'on est bien a vingt ans ! 



THE GARRET. 

With pensive eyes the little room I view, 

Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long, 
With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two. 

And a light heart still breaking into song : 
Making a mock of life, and all its cares. 

Rich in the glory of my rising sun, 
Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs. 

In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

Yes ; 'tis a garret— let him know't who will — _ 

There was my bed — full hard it was and small ; 
My table there— and I decipher still 

Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. 
Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away. 

Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun •, 
For you I pawned my watch how many a day, 

In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

And see my little Jessy, first of all ; 

She comes with pouting lips and sparkhng 
eyes : 
Behold, how roguishly she pins her shawl 

Across the narrov/ casement, curtain-wise : 



140 IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER. 

Now by the bed her petticoat glides down, 

And when did women look the worse in none ? 

I have heard since who paid for many a gown, 
In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

One jolly evening, when my friends and I 

Made happy music with our songs and cheers, 
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high, 

And distant cannon opened on our ears ; 
We rise, — we join in the triumphant strain, — 

Napoleon conquers — Austerlitz is won — 
Tyrants shall never tread us down again. 

In the brave days when I was twenty-one. 

Let us begone — the place is sad and strange — 

How far, far off, these happy times appear ; 
All that I have to live I'd gladly change 

For one such month as I have wasted here — 
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power, 

From founts of hope that never will outrun, 
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour, 

Give me the days when I was twenty-one. 



ROGER-BONTEMPS. 

Aux gens atrabilaires 
Pour exemple donne. 
En un temps de miseres 
Roger-Bontemps est ne. 
Vivre obscur k sa guise, 
Narguer les mecontens ; 
Eh gai i c'est la devise 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps, 



ROGER-BONTEMPS, 14 1 

Du chapeau de son p6re 
Coiffe dans les grands jours, 
De roses ou de lierre 
Le rajeunir toujours ; 
Mettre un manteau de bure, 
Vieil ami de vingt ans ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la parure 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Posseder dans sa hutte 
Une table, un vieux lit, 
Des cartes, une flute, 
Un broc que Dieu remplit ; 
Un portrait de maitresse, 
Un cofifre et rien dedans ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la richesse 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Aux enfans de la ville 
Montrer de petits jeux ; 
Etre fesseur habile 
De contes graveleux ; 
Ne parler que de danse 
Et d'almanachs chantans : 
Eh gai ! c'est la science 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Faute de vins d 'elite, 
Sabler ceux du canton : 
Pr6ferer Marguerite 
Aux dames du grand ton : 
De joie et de tcndresse 
Remplir tons ses instans : 
Eh gai ! c'est la sagesse 
Du gros Roger-Bontemps. 

Dire au ciel : Je me fie, 
Mon pere, a ta bonle ; 



142 IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER. 

De ma philosophie 
Pardonne le gaite : 
Que ma saison derni^re 
Soit encore un printemps ; 
Eh gai ! c'est la priere 
Du gros Roger- Bontemps. 

Vous pauvres pleins d'envie, 
Vous riches desireux, 
Vous, dont le char devie 
Apres un cours heureux ; 
Vous, qui perdrez peut-etre 
Des titres eclatans, 
Eh gai ! prenez pour maitre 
Le gros Roger-Iiontemps. 



JOLLY JACK. 

When fierce political debate 

Throughout the isle was storming, 
And Rads attacked the throne and state, 

And Tories the reforming. 
To claim the furious rage of each, 

And right the land demented. 
Heaven sent us Jolly Jack, to teach 

The way to be contented. 

Jack's bed was straw, 'twas warm and soft, 

His chair, a three-legged stool ; 
His broken jug was emptied oft, 

Yet, somehow, always full. 
His mistress' portrait decked the wall, 

His mirror had a crack ; 
Yet, gay and glad, though this was all 

His wealth, lived Jolly Jack. 



yOLLY JACK. 143 

To give advice to avarice, 

Teach pride its mean condition, 
And preach good sense to dull pretence, 

Was honest Jack's high mission. 
Our simple statesman found his rule 

Of moral in the flagon, 
And held his philosophic school 

Beneath the " George and Dragon." 

When village Solons cursed the Lords, 

And called the malt-tax sinful, 
Jack heeded not their angry words, 

But smiled and drank his skinful. 
And when men wasted health and life 

In search of rank and riches. 
Jack marked aloof the paltry strife, 

And wore his threadbare breeches. 

*' I enter not the church," he said, 

" But I'll not seek to rob it ;" 
So worthy Jack Joe Miller read, 

While others studied Cobbett. 
His talk it was of feast and fun ; 

His guide the Almanack ; 
From youth to age thus gayly run 

The life of Jolly Jack. 

And when Jack prayed, as oft he would, _ 

He humbly thanked his Maker ; 
" I am," said he, " O Father good ! 

Nor Catholic nor Quaker : 
Give each his creed, let each proclaim 

His catalogue of curses ; 
I trust in Thee, and not in them, 

In Thee and in Thy mercies ! 

" Forgive me if, midst all Thy works, 
No hint I see of damning ; 



144 IMITATIONS OF BER ANGER. 

And think there's faith among the Turks, 
And hope for e'en the Brahmin. 

Harmless my mind is, and my mirth, 
And kindly is my laughter ; 

I cannot see the smiling earth, 
And think there's hell hereafter." 

Jack died ; he left no legacy, 

Save that his story teaches : — 
Content to peevish poverty ; 

Humility to riches. 
Ye scornful great, ye envious small, 

Come follow in his track ; 
We all were happier, if we all 

Would copy Jolly Jack. 



IMITATION OF HORACE. 



TO HIS SERVING BOY. 

Persicos odi, 
Puer, apparatus ; 
Displicent nexae 
Philyra coronoe : 
Mitte sectari, 
Rosa quo locorum 
Sera moretur. 

Simplici myrto 
Nihil allabores 
Sedulus, euro •. 
Neque te ministrura 
Dedecet myrtus, 
Neque me sub arcta 
Vite bibentem. 



AD MINISTRAM. 

Dear Lucy, you know what my wish is, 
I hate all your Frenchified fuss : 

Your silly entries and made dishes 
Were never intended for us. 



146 IMITATION OF HORACE. 

No footman in lace and in ruffles 
Need dangle behind my arm-chair ; 

And never mind seeking for truffles, 
Although they be ever so rare. 

But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy, 

I prithee get ready at three : 
Have it smoking, and tender and juicy, 

And what better meat can there be ? 
And when it has feasted the master, 

'Twill amply suffice for the maid ; 
Meanwhile 1 will smoke my canaster, 

And tipple my ale in the shade. 



OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW 
FACES. 



THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.* 

Untrue to my Ulric I never could be, _ 
I vow by the saints and the blessed Mane, 
Since the desolate hour when we stood by the 

shore, , 

And your dark galley waited to carry you o er : 
My faith then I plighted, my love I confess d. 
As I gave you the Battle-axe marked with your 

crest ! 

♦ "WAPPING OLD STAIRS." 

"Your Molly has never been false she declares 

Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs . 

When I said that I would continue the same, 

And cave vou the 'bacco-box marked with my name. 

When I pa^ssed a whole fortnight between decks with you. 

Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew ? 

To be useful and kind to my Thomas 1 stay d. 

For his trousers I washed, and his grog too 1 made. 

" Though vou promised last Sunday to walk in the Mall 

With Susan from Deptford and likewise with ball, 

In silence I stood your unkindness to hear, 

And only upbraided my Tom with a tear. 

Why should Sail, or should Susan, than me be more 

For Kehelrt that is true, Tom, should ne'er be despised. 
Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly fersake , ^^ 
Still your trousers I'll wash, and your grog too I U nia^e. 



148 OLD FRIENDS WITH IV EW FACES. 

When the bold barons met in my father's old hall, 
Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball ? 
In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride, 
Was there ever a smile save with Thee at my 

side ? 
Alone in my turret I loved to sit best, 
To blazon your Banner and broider your crest. 

The knights were assembled, the tourney was 

gay I 
Sir Ulric rode first in the \varrior-mel6e. 
In the dire battle-hour, when the tourney was 

done. 
And you gave to another the wreath you had won ! 
Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was 

my breast. 
As I thought of that Battle-axe, ah ! and that 

crest \ 

But away with remembrance, no more will I pine 
That others usurped for a time what was mine ! 
There's a Festival Hour for my Ulric and me : 
Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee ; 
Once more by the side of the knight I love best 
Shall I blazon his Banner and broider his crest. 



THE ALMACK'S ADIEU. 

Your Fanny was never false-hearted, 

And this she protests and she vows. 
From the triste juoinent when we parted 

On the staircase of Devonshire House ! 
I blushed when you asked me to marry, 

I vowed I would never forget ; 
And at parting I gave my dear Harry 

A beautiful vinegarette I 



WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON. 149 

We s'^ent en pfovince all December, 

And I ne'er condescended to look 
At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, 

Or even at that darling old Duke. 
You were busy with dogs and with horses. 

Alone in my chamber 1 sat, 
And made you the nicest of purses. 

And the smartest black satin cravat ! 

At night with that vile Lady Frances 

(/> faisois moi tapis serie) 
You danced every one of the dances, 

And never once thought of poor me ! 
Alonpaiivre petit ca:ti7' I what a shiver 

I felt as she danced the last set ; 
And you gave, O mon Dicu ! to revive her 

My beautiful vinegarette ! 

Return, love ! away with coquetting ; 

This flirting disgraces a man ! 
And ah ! all the while you're forgetting 

The heart of your poor little Fan ! 
Reviens ! break away from those Circes, 

Reviens, for a nice little chat ; 
And Fve made you the sweetest of purses, 
And a lovely black satin cravat ! 



WHEN THE GLOOM IS ON THE GLEN. 

When the moonlight's on the mountain 

And the gloom is on the glen, 
At the cross beside the fountain 

There is one will meet thee then. 
At the cross beside the fountain. 

Yes, the cross beside the fountain. 
There is one will meet thee then ! 



150 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. 

I have braved, since first we met, love, 

Many a danger in my course ; 
But I never can forget, love, 

That dear fountain, that old cross, 
Where, her mantle shrouded o'er her — 

For the winds were chilly then — 
First I met my Leonora, 

When the gloom was on the glen. 

Many a clime I've ranged since then, love, 

Many a land I've wandered o'er ; 
But a valley like that glen, love, 

Half so dear I never sor ! 
Ne'er saw maiden fairer, coyer, 

Than wert thou, my true love, when 
In the gloaming first I saw yer. 

In the gloaming of the glen ! 



THE RED FLAG. 

Where the quivering lightning flings 

His arrows from out the clouds. 
And the howHng tempest sings 

And whistles among the shrouds, 
*Tis pleasant, 'tis pleasant to ride 

Along the foaming brine — 
Wilt be the Rover's bride ? 

Wilt follow him, lady mine? 
Hurrah ! 

For the bonny, bonny brine. 

Amidst the storm and rack. 
You shall see our galley pass, 

As a serpent, lithe and black. 

Glides through the waving grass. 



DEAR JACK. 151 

As the vulture, swift and dark, 

Down on the ring-dove flies, 
You shall see the Rover's bark 

Swoop down upon his prize. 
Hurrah ! 

For the bonny, bonny prize. 

Over her sides we dash. 

We gallop across her deck — 
Ha ! there's a ghastly gash 

On the merchant-captain's neck — 
Well shot, well shot, old Ned ! 

Well struck, well struck, black James ! 
Our arras are red, and our foes are dead. 

And we leave a ship in flames ! 
Hurrah ! 

For the bonny, bonny flames ! 



DEAR JACK. 

Dear Jack, this white mug that with Guinness I 

fill. 
And drink to the health of sweet Nan of the Hill, 
Was once Tommy Tosspot's, as jovial a sot 
As e'er drew a spigot, or drained a full pot — 
In drinking all round 'twas his joy to surpass. 
And with all merry tipplers he swigg'd off his 

glass. 

One morning in summer, while seated so snug, 
In the porch of his garden, discussing his jug, 
Stern Death on a sudden, to Tom did appear. 
And said, "Honest Thomas, come take your 

last bier." 
We kneaded his clay in the shape of this can, 
From which let us drink to the health of my Nan. 



152 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. 



COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL. 

The Pope he is a happy man, 

His Palace is the Vatican, 

And there he sits and drains his can : 

The Pope he is a happy man. 

I often say when I'm at home, 

I'd lilce to be the Pope of Rome. 

And then there's Sultan Saladin, 
That Turkish Soldan full of sin ; 
He has a hundred wives at least, 
By which his pleasure is increased : 
I've often wished, I hope no sin, 
That I were Sultan Saladin. 

r>ut no, the Pope no wife may choose. 
And so I would not wear his shoes ; 
No wine may drink the proud Paynim, 
And so I'd rather not be him : 
My wife, my wine, I love, I hope, 
And would be neither Turk, nor Pope. 



WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE 
HAZURE SEAS. 

When moonlike ore the hazure seas 

In soft effulgence swells. 
When silver jews and balmy breaze 

Bend down the Lily's bells ; 
When calm and deap, the rosy sleap 

Has lapt your soal in dreems, 
R Plangeline ! R lady mine ! 

Dost thou remember Jeames ? 



KING CANUTE. 1 53 

I mark thee in the Marble All, 

Where England's loveliest shine — 
I say the fairest of them hall 

Is Lady Hangeline. 
My soul, in desolate eclipse, 

With recollection teems — 
And then I hask, with weeping lips, 

Dost thou remember Jeames ? 

A-way ! I may not tell thee hall 

This soughring heart endures — 
There is a lonely sperrit-call 

That Sorrow never cures ; 
There is a little, little Star, 

That still above me beams ; 
It is the Star of Hope —but ar ! 

Dost thou remember Jeames ? 



KING CANUTE, 

King Canute was weary-hearted ; he had 

reigned for years a score, 
Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing 

much and robbing more ; 
And he thought upon his actions, walking by the 

wild sea-shore. 

'Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the 

King with steps sedate, 
Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks 

and goldsticks great, 
Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages, — all the 

officers of state. 



154 OLD FRIENDS V/ITFI NEW FACES. 

Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he 
chose to pause, 

If a frown his face contracted, straight the court- 
iers dropped their jaws ; 

If to laugh the King was minded, out they burst 
in loud hee-baws. 

But that day a something vexed him, that was 

clear to old and young : 
Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his 

favorite gleemen sung, 
Once the Queen would have consoled him, but 

he bade her hold her tongue. 

*' Something ails my gracious master," cried the 
Keeper of the Seal. 

" Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served to din- 
ner, or the veal ?" 

" Psha !" exclaimed the angry monarch. " Keep- 
er, 'tis not that I feel. 

" 'Tis the heart, and not the dinner, fool, that 

doth my rest impair : 
Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet 

know no care ? 
Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary." — Some one 

cried, " The King's arm-chair !" 

Then towards the lackeys turning, quick my Lord 

the Keeper nodded. 
Straight the King's great chair was brought him 

by two footmen able-bodied ; 
Languidly he sank into it : it was comfortably 

wadded. 

" Leading on my fierce companions," cried he, 
over storm and brine. 



V KING CANUTE. 155 

I have fought and I have conquered ! Where 

was glory hke to mine ?" 
Loudly all the courtiers echoed: "Where is 

glory like to thine ?" 

"What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am 

I now and old ; 
Those fair sons I have begotten long to see me 

dead and cold ; 
Would I were, and quiet buried underneath the 

silent mould ! 

" Oh, remor^ the writhing serpent ! at my bo- 
som tears and bites ; 

Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put 
out all the lights ; 

Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my 
bed at nights. 

" Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sac- 
rilegious fires ; 

Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for 
their slaughtered sires." — 

" Such a tender conscience," cries the Bishop, 
"every one admires. 

"But for such unpleasant bygones cease, my 

gracious lord, to search, 
They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy 

Mother Church ; 
Never, never does she leave her benefactors in 

the lurch. 

" Look ! the land is crowned with minsters, 
which your Grace's bounty raised ; 

Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and 
Heaven are daily praised ; 



156 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. 

Voif, my lord, to think of dying ? on my con- 
science I'm amazed !" 

" Nay, I feel," replied King Canute, "that my 

end is drawing near." 
" Don't say so," exclaimed the courtiers (striving 

each to squeeze a tear). 
' ' Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may 

live this fifty year." 

"Live these fifty years?" the Bishop roared, 

with actions made to suit. 
" Are you mad my good Lord Keeper, thus to 

speak of King Canute ? 
Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his 

Majesty will do't. 

" Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, 
Methusela, 

Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn't the 
King as well as they ?" 

" Fervently," exclaimed the Keeper, "Fervent- 
ly I trust he may." 

" iTt' to die?" resumed the Bishop. "lie a 
mortal like to t(s ? 

Death was not for him intended, though commu- 
nis omnibus : 

Keeper, you are irreligious for to talk and cavil 
thus. 

" With his wondrous skill in healing ne'er a doc- 
can compete. 

Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean 
upon their feet ; 

Surely he could raise the dead up, did his High- 
ness think it meet. 



KING CANUTE. 157 

*' Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun 

upon the hill, 
And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver 

moon stand still ? 
So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were 

his sacred will." 

" Might I stay the sun above us, good Sir Bish- 
op ?" Canute cried ; 

' ' Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her 
heavenly ride ? 

If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can com- 
mand the tide, 

" Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if 

I make the sign?" 
Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, " Land and sea, 

my lord, are thine." 
Canute turned towards the ocean — " Back !" he 

said, " thou foaming brine. 

" From the sacred shore I stand on, I command 

thee to retreat ; 
Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy 

master's seat : 
Ocean, be thou still ! I bid thee come not nearer 

to my feet !" 

But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, 
deeper roar, 

And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sound- 
ing on the shore ; 

Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the King 
and courtiers bore. 

And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to 
human clay, 



158 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. 

But alone to praise and worship That which earth 

and seas obey : 
And his golden crown of empire never wore he 

from that day. 
King Canute is dead and gone : Parasites exist 

alway. 



FRIAR'S SONG. 

Some love the matin-chimes, which tell 

The hour of prayer to sinner : 
But better far's the mid-day bell, 

Which speaks the hour of dinner ; 
For when I see a smoking fish, 

Or capon drown'd in gravy, 
Or noble haunch on silver dish, 

Full glad I sing my ave. 

My pulpit is an alehouse bench, 

Whereon I sit so jolly ; 
A smiling rosy country wench 

My saint and patron holy. 
I kiss her cheek so red and sleek, 

I press her ringlets wavy, 
And in her willing ear I speak 

A most religious ave. 

And if I'm blind, yet Heaven is kind, 

And holy saints forgiving ; 
For sure he leads a right good life 

Who thus admires good living. 
Above, they say, our flesh is air, 

Our blood celestial ichor : 
Oh, grant ! 'mid all the changes there, 

They may not change our liquor ! 



REQUIESCAT. 159 



ATRA CURA. 

Before I lost my five poor wits, 

I mind me of a Romish clerk, 

Who sang how Care, the phantom dark. 

Beside the belted horseman sits. 

Methought I saw the grisly sprite 

Jump up but now behind my Knight. 

And though he gallop as he may, 
I mark that cursed monster black 
Still sits behind his honor's back. 
Tight squeezing of his heart alway. 
Like two black Templars sit they there, 
Beside one crupper, Knight and Care. 

No knight am I with pennoned spear, 
To prance upon a bold destrere : 
I will not have black Care prevail 
Upon my lon^-eared charger's tail ; 
For lo, I am a witless fool. 
And laugh at Grief and ride a mule. 



REQUIESCAT. 

Under the stone you behold, 
Buried, and coffined, and cold, 
Lieth Sir Wilfrid the Bold. 

Always he marched in advance. 
Warring in Flanders and France, 
Doughtly with sword and with lance. 



l6o OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. 

Famous in Saracen fight, 

Rode in his youth the good knight, 

Scattering Paynims in flight. 

Brian, the Templar untrue, 
Fairly in tourney he slew. 
Saw Hierusalem too. 

Now he is buried and gone, 
Lying beneath the gray stone : 
Where shall you find such a one ? 

Long time his widow deplored, 
Weeping the fate of her lord. 
Sadly cut off by the sword. 

When she was eased of her pain. 
Came the good Lord Athelstane, 
When her ladyship married again 



THE WILLOW-TREE. 

Know ye the willow-tree 

Whose gray leaves quiver, 
Whispering gloomily 

To yon pale river ? 
Lady, at even-tide 

Wander not near it : 
They say its branches hide 

A sad, lost spirit ! 

Once to the willow-tree 
A maid came fearful ; 

Pale seemed her cheek to be^ 
Her blue eye tearful. 



THE WILLOW-TREE, l6l 

Soon as she saw the tree, 

Her step moved fleeter ; 
No one was there — ah me ! 

No one to meet her ! 

Quick beat her heart to hear 

The far bells' chime 
Toll from the chapel-tower 

The trysting time : 
But the red sun went down 

In golden flame, 
And though she looked round, 

Yet no one came ! 

Presently came the night. 

Sadly to greet her, — 
Moon in her silver light. 

Stars in their glitter ; 
Then sank the moon away 

Under the billow. 
Still wept the maid alone — 

There by the willow ! 

Through the long darkness. 

By the stream rolling. 
Hour after hour went on 

Tolling and tolling. 
Long was the darkness. 

Lonely and stilly ; 
Shrill came the night-wind, 

Piercing and chilly. 

Shrill blew the morning breeze, 

Biting and cold, 
Bleak peers the gray dawn 

Over the wold. 



1 62 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. 

Bleak over moor and stream 

Looks the gray dawn, 
Gray, with dishevelled hair, 
Still stands the willow there — 

The maid is gone ! 

D online. Do mine ! 

Sing we a litany, — 
Si}2g for the poor ?naiden-Jiearts broken and weary 

Doniine, Do/nine ! 

Sing we a litany. 
Wail we and weep we a wild Miserere ! 



THE WILLOW-TREE. 

(another version.) 

I. 

Long by the willow-tree 
Vainly they sought her, 

Wild rang- the mother's screams 
O'er the gray water : 

" Where is my lovely one ? 
Where is my daughter ? 



" Rouse thee, sir constable — 
Rouse thee and look ; 

Fisherman, bring your net, 
Boatman your hook. 

Beat in the lily-beds. 
Dive in the brook !" 



THE WILLOW-TREE. 1 63 

III. 

Vainly the constable 

Shouted and called her ; 
Vainly the fisherman 

Beat the green alder, 
Vainly he Rung the net. 

Never it hauled her ! 

IV. 

Mother beside the fire 

Sat, her nightcap in ; 
Father, in easy chair. 

Gloomily napping. 
When at the window-sill 

Came a light tapping ! 

V. 

And a pale countenance 

Looked through the casement. 
Loud beat the mother's heart 

Sick with amazement, 
And at the vision which 

Came to surprise her, 
Shrieked in an agony — 

"Lor! it'§ Elizar !" 

VI. 

Yes, 'twas Elizabeth — 

Yes, 'twas their girl ; 
Pale was her cheek, and her 

Hair out of curl. 
" Mother !" the loving one, 

Blushing, exclaimed, 
*' Let not your innocent 

Lizzy be blamed. 



164 OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES. 
VII. 

" Yesterday, going to aunt 

Jones's to tea, 
Mother, dear mother, I>' 

Forgot the door-key ! 
And as the night was cold, 

And the way steep, 
Mrs. Jones kept me to 

Breakfast and sleep." 

VIII. 

Whether her Pa and Ma 

Fully believed her. 
That we shall never know. 

Stern they received her ; 
And for the work of that 

Cruel, though short, night, 
Sent her to bed without 

Tea for a fortnight. 



IX. 

Moral. 

Hey diddle diddlety. 

Cat and the Fiddlety, 
Maidens of England, take caution hy she! 

Let love and suicide 

Never tempt you aside. 
And always retnember to take the door-key. 



LYRA HIBERNICA. 

THE POEMS OF THE MOLONY OF 
K I LB ALL YMOLONY, 



THE PIMLICO PAVILION. 

Ye pathrons of janius, Minerva and Vanius, 
Who sit on Parnassus, that mountain of snow, 

Descind from your station and make observation 
Of the Prince's pavilion in sweet Pimlico. 

This garden, by jakurs, is forty poor acres, 
(The garner he tould me, and sure ought to 
know ;) 

And yet greatly bigger, in size and in figure. 
Than the Phanix itself, seems the Park Pimlico. 

O 'tis there that the spoort is, when the Queen 
and the Coort is 

Walking magnanimous all of a row. 
Forgetful what state is among the pataties 

And the pineapple gardens of sweet Pimlico. 

There in blossoms odorous the birds sing a 
chorus 
Of " God save the Queen" as they hop to and 
fro ; 



l66 LYRA HJBERNICA. 

And you sit on the binches and hark to the 
finches. 
Singing melodious in sweet PimUco. 

There shuiting their phanthasies, they pluck poly- 
anthuses 
That round in the gardens resplindently grow, 
Wid roses and jessimins, and other sweet speci- 
mins, 
Would charm bould Linnayus in sweet Pimlico. 

You see when you inther, and stand in the cin- 
ther, 
Where the roses, and necturns, and collyflow- 
ers blow, 
A hill so tremindous, it tops the top-windows 
Of the elegant houses of famed Pimlico. 

And when you've ascinded that precipice splindid 
You see on its summit a wondtherful show — 

A lovely Swish building, all painting and gilding, 
The famous Pavilion of sweet Pimlico. 

Prince Albert, of Flandthers, that Prince of Com- 
mandthers, 
(On whom my best blessings hereby I bestow,) 
With goold and vermilion has decked that Pavil- 
ion, 
Where the Queen may take tay in her sweet 
Pimlico. 

There's lines from John Milton the chamber all 
gilt on, 
And pictures beneath them that's shaped like 
a bow ; 
I was greatly astounded to think that that Round- 
head 
Should find an admission to famed Pimlico. 



THE PIMLTCO PAVILION. 167 

lovely's each fresco, and most picturesque O ; 
And while round the chamber astonished I go, 

1 think Dan Maclise's it baits all the pieces 
Surrounding the cottage of famed Pimlico. 

Eastlake has the chimney, (a good one to limn he,) 
And a vargin he paints with a sarpent below ; 

V.'hile bulls, pigs, and panthers, and other en- 
chanthers. 
Are painted by Landseer in sweet Pimlico. 

And nature smiles opposite. Stanfield he copies it ; 

O'er Claude or Poussang sure 'tis he that may 
crow : 
But Sir Ross's best faiture is small miniature — 

He shouldn't paint fresqoes in famed Pimlico. 

There's Leslie and Uwins has rather small 
doings ; 
There's Dyce, as brave masther as England 
can show ; 
And the flowers and the sthrawberries, sure he 
no dauber is. 
That painted the panels of famed Pimlico. 

In the pictures from Walther Scott, never a fault 
there's got. 
Sure the marble's as natural as thrue Scaglio ; 
And the Chamber Pompayen is sweet to take tay 
in, 
And ait butther'd muffins in sweet Pimlico. 

There's landscapes by Gruner, both solar and 
lunar, 
Them two little Doyles, too, deserve a bravo ; 
Wid de piece by young Townsend, (for janius 
abounds in't ;) 
And that's why he's shuited to paint Pimlico. 



l68 LYRA HIBERNICA. 

That picture of Severn's is worthy of revcr'nce 
But some I won't mintion is rather so so ; 

For sweet philosophy, or crumpets and coffee, 
O Where's a Pavilion like sweet Pimlico ? 

O to praise this Pavilion would puzzle Quintilian, 
Daymosthenes, Brougham, or young Cicero ; 

So, heavenly Goddess, d'ye pardon my modesty. 
And silence, my lyre ! about sweet Pimlico. 



THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 

With janial foire 

Transfuse me loyre. 
Ye sacred nymphs of Pindus, 

The whoile I sing 

That wondthrous thing. 
The Palace made o' windows ! 

Say, Paxton, truth. 

Thou wondthrous youth, 
What sthroke of art celistial, 

What power was lint 

You to invint 
This combineetion cristial. 

O would before 

That Thomas Moore, 
Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, 

Thim aigles sthrong 

Of godlike song, 
Cast oi on that cast oiron ! 

And saw thim walls. 
And glittering halls, 
Thim rising slendther columns 



THE CRYSTAL PALACE, 1 69 

Which I, poor pote, 
Could not denote, 
No, not in twinty vollums. 

My Muse's words 

Is like the bird's 
That roosts beneath the panes there ; 

Her wings she spoils 

'Gainst them bright toiles, 
And cracks her silly brains there. 

This Palace tall, 

This Cristial Hall, 
Which Imperors might covet, 

Stands in High Park 

Like Noah's Ark, 
A rainbow bint above it. 

The towers and fanes. 

In other scaynes. 
The fame of this will undo, 

Saint Paul's big doom, 

Saint Payther's Room, 
And Dublin's proud Rotundo. 

'Tis here that roams, 

As well becomes 
Her dignitee and stations, 

Victoria Great, 

And houlds in state 
The Congress of the Nations. 

Her subjects pours 

From distant shores. 
Her Injians and Canajians ; 

And also we. 

Her kingdoms three, 
Attind with our allagiancc. 



lyo LYRA IIIBERNICA. 

Here come likewise 

Her bould allies, 
Both Asian and Europian ; 

From East and West 

They send their best 
To fill her Coornucopean. 

I seen (thank Grace !) 

This wondthrous place 
(His Noble Honor xMisther 

H. Cole it was 

That gave the pass, 
And let me see what is there). 

With conscious proide 

I stud insoide 
And look'd the W^orld's Great Fair in, 

Until me sight 

\Vas dazzled quite. 
And couldn't see for staring. 

There's holy saints 

And window paints. 
By Maydiayval Pugin : 

Alhamborough Jones 

Did paint the tones 
Of yellow and gambouge in. 

There's fountains there 

And crosses fair ; 
There's water-gods with urrns : 

There's organs three, 

To play d'ye see ? 
** God save the Queen," by turrns. 

There's statues bright 
Of marble white. 
Of silver, and of copper ; 



THE CRYSTAL PALACE. 171 

And some in zinc, 

And some, I think, 

That isn't over proper. 

There's staym ingynes, 

That stands in lines. 
Enormous and amazing. 

That squeal and snort 

Like whales in sport, 
Or elephants a-grazing. 

There's carts and gigs. 

And pins for pigs, 
There s dibblers and there's harrows. 

And ploughs like toys 

For little boys. 
And ilegant wheelbarrows. 

For thim genteels 

Who ride on wheels, 
There's plenty to indulge 'em : 

There's droskys snug 

From Paytersbug, 
And vayhycles from Bulgium. 

There's cabs on stands 

And shandthry danns ; 
There's waggons from New York here ; 

There's Lapland sleighs 

Have cross'd the seas, 
And jaunting cyars from Cork here. 

Amazed I pass 

From glass to glass, 
Deloighted I survey 'em ; 

Fresh wondthers grows 

Before me nose 
In this sublime Musayum ! 



172 LYRA HIBERNICA, 

Look, here's a fan 

From far Japan, 
A sabre from Damasco : 

There's shawls je get 

PVom far Thibet, 
And cotton prints from Glasgowo 

There's German flutes, 

Marocky boots, 
And Naples macaronies ; 

Bohaymia 

Has sent Bohay ; 
Polonia her polonies. 

There's granite flints 

That's quite imminse. 
There's sacks of coals and fuels. 

There's swords and guns, 

And soap in tuns. 
And gingerbread and jewels. 

There's taypots there. 

And cannons rare ; 
There's cofiins fill'd with roses ; 

There's canvas tints. 

Teeth insthrumints, 
And shuits of clothes by Moses, 

There's lashins more 

Of things in store. 
But thim I don't remimber ; 

Nor could disclose 

Did I compose 
From May time to Novimber ! 

Ah, Judy thru ! 
With eyes so blue. 
That you were here to view it ! 



MOLONY'S LAMENT. 1 73 

And could I screw 
But tu pound tu, 
*Tis I would thrait you to it ! 

So let us raise 

Victoria's praise, 
And Albert's proud condition, 

That takes his ayse 

As he surveys 
This Cristial Exhibition. 



MOLONY'S LAMENT. 

Tim, did you hear of thim Saxons, 
And read what the peepers report ? 

They're goan to recal the Liftinant, 

And shut up the Castle and Coort ! 
Our desolate counthry of Oireland 

They're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy, 
And now having murdthered our counthry, 

They're goin to kill the Viceroy, 
Dear boy ; 

'Twas he was our proide and our joy i 

And will we no longer behould him, 
Surrounding his carriage in throngs. 

As he waves his cocked-hat from the windies, 
And smiles to his bould aid-de-congs ? 

1 liked for to see the young haroes. 

All shoining with sthripes and with stars, 
A horsing about in the Phaynix, 
And winking the girls in the cyars, 

Like Mars, 
A smokin' their poipes and cigyars. 



174 LYRA HI BERN I C A. 

Dear Mitchell exoiled to Bermudies, 

Your beautiful oilids you'll ope, 
And there'll be an abondance of croyin' 

From O'Brine at the Keep of Good Hope, 
When they read of this news in the peepers, 

Acrass the Atlantical wave, 
That the last of the Oirish Liftinints 

Of the oisland of Seents has tuck lave. 
God save 

The Queen — she should betther behave. 

And what's to become of poor Dame Sthreet, 

And who'll ait the puffs and the tarts, 
Whin the Coort of imparial splindor 

From Doblin's sad city departs ? 
And who'll have the fiddlers and pipers. 

When the deuce of a Coort there remains ? 
And where'U be the bucks and the ladies. 

To hire the Coort-shuits and the thrains ? 
In sthrains. 

It's thus that ould Erin complains 1 

There's Counsellor Flanag-an's leedy, 

'Twas she in the Coort didn't fail, 
And she wanted a plinty of popplin, 

For her dthress, and her flounce, and her tail ; 
She bought it of Misthress O' Grady, 

Eight shillings a yard tabinet, 
But now that the Coort is concluded, 

The divvle a yard will she get ; 
I bet, 

Bedad, that she wears the ould set 

There's Surgeon O'Toole and Miss Leary, 
They'd daylings at Madam O'Riggs' ; 

Each year at the dthrawing-room sayson, 
They mounted the neatest of v\ igs. 



MOLONY'S LAMENT. 175 

When Spring, with its buds and its daisies, 
Comes out in her beauty and bloom, 

Thim tu'll never think of new jasies, 
Because there is is no dthrawing-room, 

For whom 
They'd choose the expense to ashume. 

There's Alderman Toad and his lady, 

'Twas they gave the Clart and the Poort, 
And the poineapples, turbots, and lobsters. 

To feast the Lord Liftinint's Coort. 
But now that the quality's goin, 

I warnt that the aiting will stop, 
And you'll get at the Alderman's teeble 

The devil a bite or a dthrop, 
Or chop ; 

And the butcher may shut up his shop. 

Yes, the grooms and the ushers are goin, 

And his Lordship, the dear honest man, 
And the Duchess, his eemiable leedy, 

And Corry, the bould Connellan, 
And little Lord Hyde and the childthren, 

And the Chewter and Governess tu ; 
And the servants are packing their boxes, — 

Oh, murther, but what shall I due 
Without you ? 

O Meery, with ois of the blue ! 



176 LYRA HI BERN IC A. 



MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE 
BALL 

GIVEN TO THE NEPAULKSE AMBASSADOR BY THE PENIN- 
SULAR AND ORIENTAL COMPANY. 

O WILL ye choose to hear the news, 

Beclad I cannot pass it o'er ; 
I'll tell you all about the Ball 

To the Naypaulase Ambassador. 
Begor ! this fete all balls does bate 

At which I've worn a pump, and I 
Must here relate the splendthor great 

Of th' Oriental Company. 

These men of sinsc dispoised expinse, 

To fete these black Achilleses. 
" We'll show the blacks," says they, "Almack's," 

"And take the rooms at Willis's." 
With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, 

They hung the rooms of Willis up. 
And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls. 

With roses aTid with lilies up. 

And Jullien's band it tuck its stand 

So sweetly in the middle there, 
And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes. 

And violins did fiddle there. 
And when the Coort was tired of spoort, 

I'd lave you, boys, to think there was 
A nate buffet before them set, 

Where lashins of good dhrink there was. 

At ten before the ball-room door, 

His moighty Excellency was, 
He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd. 

So gorgeous and immense he was. 



ACCOUNT OF THE BALL. 1 77 

His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, 

Into the door-way follovved him ; 
And O the noise of the blackguard boys, 

As they hurrood and hollowed him ! 

The noble Chair * stud at the stair, 

And bade the dthrums to thump ; and he 
Did thus evince, to that Black Prince, 

The welcome of his Company. 
O fair the girls, and rich the curls, 

And bright the oys you saw there, was ; 
And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, 

On Gineral Jung Bahawther, was ! 

This Gineral great then tuck his sate, 

With all the other ginerals, 
(Bedad his troat, his belt, his coat. 

All bleezed with precious minerals ;) 
And as he there, with princely air 

Recloinin on his cushion was, 
All round about his royal chair 

The squeezin and the pushin was. 

O Pat, such girls, such Jukes, and Earls, 

Such fashion and nobilitee ! 
Just think of Tim, and fancy him 

Amidst the hoigh gentilitee ! 
There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Portygeese 

Ministher and his lady there. 
And I reckonised, with much surprise, 

Our messmate, Bob O'Grady, there ; 



* James Matheson, Esq., to whom, and the Board of 
Directors of the Peninsular and Oriental Company, I, 
Timotheus Molony, late stoker on board the " Iberia," 
the '' Lady Mary Wood," the " Tagus," and the Oriental 
steim^hips, humbly dedicate this production of my grate- 
ful muse. 



178 LVJ?A HIBERNICA. 

There was Bareness Brunow, that looked likejuno, 

And Baroness Rehausen there, 
And Countess Roullier, that looked peculiar 

Well, in her robe^. of gauze in there. 
There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first, 

When only Mr. Tips he was). 
And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool, 

That after supper tipsy was. 

There was Lord Fingall, and his ladies all, 

And Lords Killeen and Dufferin, 
And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife ; 

1 wondther how he could stuff her in. 
There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, 

And seemed to ask how should / go there ? 
And the Widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, 

And the Marchioness of Sligo there. 

Yes. Jukes, and Earls, and diamonds, and pearls. 

And pretty girls, was spoorting there ; 
And some beside (the rogues !) I spied. 

Behind the windies, coorting there. 
Oh, there's one I know, bedad, would show 

As beautiful as any there, 
And I'd like to hear the pipers blow. 

And shake a fut with Fanny there ! 



THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. 

Ye Genii of the nation, 

Who look with veneration. 
And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly deplore 

Ye sons of General Jackson, 

Who thrample on the Saxon, 
Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore. 



THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. 179 

When William, Duke of Schumbug, 

A tyrant and a humbug, 
With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, 

Our fortitude and valhance 

Insthructed his battalions 
To rispict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore. 

Since that capitulation. 

No city in this nation 
So grand a reputation could boast before. 

As Limerick prodigious. 

That stands with quays and bridges 
And the ships up to the windies of the Shannon 
shore. 

A chief of ancient line, 

'Tis William Smith O'Brine 
Reprisints this darling Limerick, this ten years or 
more : 

O the Saxons can't endure 

To see him on the flure. 
And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore ! 

This valliant son of Mars 

Had been to visit Par's, . ^ 

That land of Revolution, that grows the tricolor , 

And to welcome his returrn 

From pilgrimages furreri 
We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore. 

Then we summoned to our board 

Young Meagher of the sword ; 
'Tis he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore , 

And Mitchil of Belfast 

We bade to our repast, 
To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore. 



l8o LmA HIBERNICA. 

Conveniently to hould 

These patriots so bould, 
We tuck the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store : 

And with ornamints and banners 

(As becomes gintale good manners) 
We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shannon 
shore. 

'Twould binifit your sowls 

To see the buttherd rowls, 
The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim gal- 
yore. 

And the muffins and the crumpets, 

And the band of harps and thrumpets, 
To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore. 

Sure the Tmperor of Eohay 
Would be proud to dthrink the tay 

That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did 
pour ; 
And since the days of Strongbow, 
There never was such Congo — 

Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it — by Shannon shore. 

But Clarndon and Corry 

Connellan beheld this sworry 
With rage and imulation in their black hearts' core ; 

And they hired a gang of ruffins 

To interrupt the muffins 
And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon 
shore. 

When full of tay and cake, 

O'Brine began to spake ; 
But juice a one could hear him, for a sudden roar 

Of a ragamuffin rout 

Began to yell and shout, 
And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore. 



THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. l8l 

As Smith O'Brine harangued. 

They batthered and they banged : _ 

Tim Doolan's doors and u'indies down they tore , 

They smashed the lovely wmdies 

(Hun<r with muslin from the Indies), 
rurshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore. 

With throwing of brickbats, 

Drowned puppies and dead rats 
These rufhn democrats themselves did lower , 

Tin kettles, rotten eggs, 

Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, 
They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore. 

O the girls began to scrame 

And upset the milk and crame ; 
And the honorable gintlemin, they cursed and 
swore : 

And Mitchil of Belfast, 

'Twas he that looked aghast 
When they roasted him in effigy by Shannon shore. 

O the lovely tav was spilt 
On that day of Ireland's guilt ; 
Says Jack Mitchil, " I am kilt ! Boys, where . the 
back door ? 
'Tis a national disgrace : 
T pt me e-o and veil me face ; 
And he bouTelwith quick pace from theShannon 
shore. 

" Cut down the bloody horde !" 

Savs Meagher of the sword, 
'« This conduct would disgrace any blackamore , 

But the best use Tommy made 

Of his famous battle blade 
Was to cut his own stick from the Shannon shore. 



r 



1 82 LYRA HIBBRNICA. 

Immortal Smith O'Brine 

Was raging like a line ; 
'Twould have done your sowl good to have heard 
him roar ; 

In his glory he arose, 

And he rush'd upon his foes, 
But they hit him on the nose by the Shannon shore. 

Then the Futt and the Dthragoons 

In squadthrons and platoons, 
With their music playing chunes, down upon us 
bore ; 

And they bate the rattatoo, 

But the Peelers came in view, 
And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore. 



LARRY O'TOOLE. 

You've all heard of Larry O'Toole, 
Of the beautiful town of Drumgoole 

He had but one eye, 

To ogle ye by — 
Oh, murther, but that was a jew'l ! 

A fool 
He made of de girls, dis O'Toole. 

'Twas he was the boy didn't fail, 

That tuck down pataties and mail ; 
He never would shrink 
From any strong dthrink. 

Was it whiskey or Drogheda ale ; 
I'm bail 

This Larry would swallow a pail. 



TFIE ROSE OF FLORA. 1 83 

Oh, many a night at the bowl, 
With Larry I've sot cheek by jowl ; 

He's gone to his rest, 

Where there's dthrink of the best, 
And so let us give his old sowl 

A howl, 
For t'was he made the noggin to rowl. 



THE ROSE OF FLORA. 

SENT BY A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF QUALITY TO MISS BR-DV, 
OF CASTLE BRADY. 

On Brady's towers there grows a flower, 
It is the loveliest flower that blows,— 

At Castle Brady there lives a lady 
(And how I love her no one knows) ; 

Her name is Nora, and the goddess Flora 
Presents her with this blooming rose. 

" O Lady Nora, "says the goddess Flora, 
"I've many a rich and bright parterre ; 

In Brady's towers there'r seven more flowers. 
But you're the fairest lady there : 

Not all the county, nor Ireland's bounty, _ ^^^ 
Can projuice a treasure that's half so fair '. 

What cheek is redder ? sure roses fed her ! 

Her hair is maregolds, and her eyes of blew. 
Beneath her eyelid, is like the vi'let. 

That darkly glistens with gentle jew ! 
The lily's nature is not surely whiter 

Than Nora's neck is,— and her arrums too. 



184 LYRA HIBERNICA. 

"Come, gentle Nora," says the goddess Flora, 
" My dearest creature, take my advice : 

There is a poet, full well you know it. 

Who spends his lifetime in heavy sighs, — 

Young Redmond Barry, 'tis him you'll marry, 
If rhyme and raisin you'd choose likewise." 



THE LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE. 

On reading of the general indignation occasioned 
in Ireland by the appointment of a Scotch Pro- 
fessor to one of Her Majesty's Godless Colleges, 
Master MoLLOY Molony, brother of Thaddeus 
MoLONY, Esq., of the Temple, a youth only fif- 
teen years of age, dashed off the following spirited 
lines : 

As I think of the insult that's done to this nation. 
Red tears of rivinge from me faytures I wash, 

And uphold in this pome, to the world's daytista- 
tion, 
The sleeves that appointed Professor M'Cosh. 

I look round me counthree, renowned by expari- 
ence, 
And see midst her childthren, the witty, the 
wise, — 
Whole hayps of logicians, poets, schollars, gram- 
marians. 
All ayger for pleeces, all panting to rise ; 

1 gaze round the world in its utmost diminsion ; 

Lard Jahn and his minions in Council I ask, 
Was there ever a Government-plecce (with a pinsion) 

But the children of Erin were fit for that task ? 



TUB LAST IRISH GRIEVANCE. 185 

What, Erin beloved, is thy fetal condition ? 

What shame in aych boosom must rankle and 
burrun. 
To think that our countree has ne'er a logician 

In the hour of her deenger will surrev her turrun ! 

On the logic of Saxons there's little reliance, 
And, rather from Saxon than gather its rules, 

I'd stamp under feet the base book of his science, 
And spit on his chair as he taught in the schools ! 

O false "Sir John Kane ! is it thus that you praych 
me? 

I think all your Queen's Universitces r>osh ; 
And if you've no neetive Professor to taych me, 

I scawurn to be learned by the Saxon M'Cosh. 

There's Wiseman and Ciiume, and His Grace the 
Lord Primate, 
That sinds round the box, and the world will 
subscribe : 
*Tis they'll build a College that's fit for our cli- 
mate. 
And taych me the saycrets I burn to imboibe ! 

'Tis there as a Student of Science I'll enther. 
Fair Fountain of Knowledge, of Joy, and 
Contint ! 
Saint Pathrick's sweet Statue shall stand in the 
centher, 
And wink his dear oi every day daring Lint. 

And good Doctor Newman, that praycher unwary, 
'Tis he shall preside the Academee School, 

And quit the gay robe of St. Philip of Neri, 
To wield the soft rpd of Sr. Lawrence 

O'TOOLE ! 



THE 

BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X, 



THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE 
RONEY AND MARY BROWN." 

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek — 
I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, 
Vcre Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, 
Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin of she. 

This Mary was pore and in misery once. 

And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than 

twelve monce. 
She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner nor no tea, 
And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three. 

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks, 
(Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax,) 
She kep her for nothink, as kind as could be, 
Never thinkin that this Mary was a traitor to 
she. 

"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill ; 
Will you just step to the Doctor's for to fetch me 

a pill?" 
"That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says 

she ; 
And she goes off to the Doctor's as quickly as 

may be. 



JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN. 1 87 

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, 
Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a 

bed; 
She hopens all the trunks without never a key — 
She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes 

free. 

Mrs. Roney's best linning, gownds, petticoats, 

and close, 
Her children's little coats and things, her boots, 

and her hose. 
She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay 

vith them did flee. 
Mrs. Roney's situation — you may think vat it 

vould be ! 

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this 

vay, 
Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a 

day. 
Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should 

she see 
But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to 

she? 

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young 

man. 
They were going to be married, and were walkin 

hand in hand ; 
And the Church bells was a ringing for Mary and 

he. 
And the parson was ready, and a waitin for his 

fee. 

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary 

Brown, 
Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the 

ground. 



1 88 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me : 
I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says 
she. 

" Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go. 
I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, 
But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring 

you may see, 
And this young man is a waitin," says Mary says 

she. 

" I don't care three fardens for the parson and 

dark. 
And the bell may keep ringin from noonday to 

dark. 
Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along 

with me ; 
And I think this young man is lucky to be free." 

So, in spite of the tears which bejew'd Mary's 

cheek, 
I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak , 
That exlent Justice demanded her plea — 
But never a sullable said Mary said she. 

On account of her conduck so base and so vile, 
That wicked young gurl is committed for trilc, 
And if she's transpav/ted beyond the salt sea. 
It's a proper reward for such willians as she. 

Now you young gurls of Southwark for Mary 

who veep. 
From pickin and stealin your ands you must 

keep. 
Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday vcck, 
To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak. 



THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS. 1 89 



THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS. 

My name is Pleaceman X ; 

Last night I was in bed, 
A dream did me perplex, 

Which came into my Edd. 
I dreamed I sor three Waits 

A playing of their tune, 
At Pimlico Palace gates, 

All underneath the moon. 
One puffed a hold French horn, 

And one a hold Banjo, 
And one chap seedy and torn 

A Hirish pipe did blow. 
They sadly piped and played, 

Dexcribing of their fates ; 
And this was what they said. 

Those three pore Christmas waits :- 

" When this black year began, 
This Eighteen-forty-eight, 

I was a great great man. 

And king both vise and great. 

And Munseer Guizot by me did show 
As Minister of State. 

*' But Febuwerry came, 
And brought a rabble rout. 

And me and my good dame 
And children did turn out, 

And us, in spite of all our right, 
Sent to the right about. 

" I left my native ground, 

I left my kin and kith, 
I left my royal crownd, 

Vich I couldn't travel vith, 



IQO BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

And without a pound came to English ground 
In the name of Mr. Smith. 

" Like any anchorite 

I've lived since I came here, 
I've kep myself quite quite, 

I've drank the small small beer. 
And the vater, you see, disagrees vith me 

And all my famly dear. 

" O Tweeleries so dear, 

O darling Pally Royl, 
Vas it to finish here 

That I did trouble and toyl ? 
That all my plans should break in my ands. 

And should on me recoil ? 

*' My state I fenced about 

Vith baynicks and vith guns ; 
My gals I portioned hout, 

Rich vives I got my sons ; 

varn't it crule to lose my rule. 
My money and lands at once ? 

" And so, vid arp and woice. 
Both troubled and shagreened, 

1 bid you to rejoice, 

glorious England's Queend ! 

And never have to veep, like pore Louis-Phileep 
Because you out are cleaned. 

*' O Prins, so brave and stout, 

1 stand before your gate ; 
Pray send a trifle hout 

To me, your pore old Vait ; 
For nothink could be vuss than it's been along 
vith us 
In this year Forty-eight." 



THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS. 191 

" Ven this bad year began," 

The next man said, saysee, 
" I vas a Journeyman, 

A tayloi- black and free. 
And my wife went out and chaired about, 

And my name's the bold Cuffee. 

*' The Queen and Halbert both 

I swore I would confound, 
I took a hawfle hoath 

To drag them to the ground ; 
And sevral more v/ith me they swore 

Aginst the British Crownd. 

" Aginst her Pleaceman all 
We said we'd try our strenth ; 

Her scarlick soldiers tall 

We vow'd we'd lay full lenth : 

And out we came, in Freedom's name, 
Last Ayprii was the tenth. 

" Three 'undred thousand snobs 

Came out to stop the vay, 
Vith sticks vith iron knobs, 

Or else we'd gained the day.^ 
The harmy quite kept out of sight. 

And so ve vent avay. 

" Next day the Pleacemen came — 
Rewenge it was their plann — 

And from my good old dame 
They took her tailor-mann : 

And the hard hard beak did me bespeak 
To Newgit in the Wann. 

" In that etrocious Cort 
The Jewry did agree ; 



192 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

The Judge did me transport, 

To go beyond the sea : 
And so for life, from his dear w ife 

They took poor old Cuffee. 

" O Halbert, Appy Prince ? 

With children round your knees, 
Ingraving ansuni Prints, 

And taking hoff your hease ; 
O think of me, the old Cuffee, 

Beyond the solt solt seas ! 

" Although I'm hold and black, 
My hanguish is most great ; 

Great Prince, O call me back, 
And I vili be your Vait ! 

And never no move vill break the Lor, 
As I did in 'Forty-eight," 

The tailer thus did close 

(A pore old blackymore rogue), 

When a dismal gent uprose. 

And spoke with H Irish brogue : 

" I'm Smith O'Prine, of Royal Line 
Descended from Rory Ogue. 

" When great O'Connle died. 
That man whom all did trust, 

That man whom Henglish pride 
Beheld with such disgust. 

Then Erin free fixed ej^es on me. 
And swoar I should be fust. 

•' ' The glorious Hirish Crown,' 
Says she, ' it shall be thine : 

Long time, it's wery well known 
Vou kep it in your line ; 

That diadem of hemerald gem 
Is yours, my Smith O'Brine, 



THE THREE CHRISTMAS WAITS. 193 

*' ' Too long^ the Saxon churl 

Our land encumbered hath ; 
Arise, my Prince, my Earl, 

And brush them from thy path : 
Rise, mighty Smith, and sveep 'em vith 

The besom of your wrath.' 

" Then in my might I rose, 

My country I surveyed, 
I saw it filled with foes, 

I viewed them undismayed ; 
. ' Ha, ha !' says I, ' the harvest's high, 
I'll reap it with my blade.' 

" My warriors I enrolled. 
They rallied round their lord ; 

And cheafs in council old 
I summond to the board — 

Wise Doheny and Duffy bold, 
And Meagher of the Sword. 

" I stood on Slievenamaun, 

They came with pikes and bills ; 

They gathered in the dawn, 
Like mist upon the hills, 

And rushed adown the mountain side 

Like twenty thousand rills. 

" Their fortress we assail ; 

Hurroo ! my boys, hurroo ! 
The bloody Saxons quail 

To hear the wild shaloo : 
Strike, and prevail, proud Innesfail, 

O'Brine aboo, aboo ! 

*' Our people they defied ; 

They shot at 'em like savages, 
Their bloody guns they plied 

With sanguinary ravages : 



194 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

Hide, blushing- Glory, hide 

That day among the cabbages ! 

** And so no more I'll say, 
But ask your Mussy great, 

And humbly sing- and pray, 
Your Majesty's poor Wait : 

Your Smith O'Brine in 'Forty-nine 
Will blush for 'Forty -eight." 



LINES ON A LATE IIOSPICIOUS 
EWENT.* 

BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOT-GUARDS (BLUE). 

I PACED upon my beat 

With steady step and slow, 
All huppandownd of Ranelagh Street ; 

Ran'lagh St. Pimlico. 

While marching huppandownd 

Upon that fair May morn, 
Beold the booming cannings sound, 

A royal child is born ! 

The Ministers of State 

Then presenly I sor. 
They gallops to the Pallis gate, 

In carridges and for. 

With anxious looks intent, 

Before the gate they stop, 
There comes the good Lord President, 

And there the Archbishopp. 

* The birth of Prince Arthur. 



LINES ON A HOSPICIOUS EV/ENT, 1 95 

Lord John he next elights ; 

And who conies here in haste ? 
'Tis the ero of one underd fights, 

The caudle for to taste. 

Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss, 

Towards them steps with joy ; 

Says the brave old Duke, ' ' Come tell to us, 
Is it a gal or a boy ?" 

Says Mrs. L. to the Duke, 

" Your Grace, it is a Prince," 
And at that nuss's bold rebuke 

He did both laugh and wince. 

He vews with pleasant look 

This pooty flower of May, 
Then says the wenerable Duke, 

" Egad, it's my buthday," 

By memory backards borne, 

Peraps his thoughts did stray 
To that old place where he was born 

Upon the first of May. 

Perhaps he did recall 

The ancient towers of Trim ; 
And County Meath and Dangan Hall 

They did rewisit him. 

I phansy of him so 

His good old thoughts employin' ; 
Fourscore years and one ago 

Beside the flowin' Boyne. 

His father praps he sees, 
Most musicle of Lords, 



196 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

A playing maddrigles and glees 
Upon the Arpsicords. 

Jest phansy this old Ero 
Upon his mother's knee ! 

Did ever lady in this land 
Ave greater sons than she ! 

And I shouldn be surprize 
While this was in his mind. 

If a drop there twinkled in his eyes 
Of unfamiliar brind. 



To Hapsly Ouse next day 
Drives up a Broosh and for, 

A gracious prince sits in that Shay 
(I mention him with Her !) 

They ring upon the bell, 
The Porter shows his Ed, 

(He fought at Vaterloo as veil, 
And vears a Veskit red). 

To see that carriage come, 
The people round it press : 

" And is the galliant Duke at ome?" 
"Your Royal Ighness, yes." 

He stepps from out the Broosh 

And in the gate is gone ; 
And X, although the people push, 

Says wery kind, " Move hon." 

The Royal Prince unto 
The galliant Duke did say, 

" Dear Duke, my little son and you 
Was born the self-same day. 



LINES ON A HOSPICIOUS EWENT, 1 97 

' ' The Lady of the land, 

My wife and Sovring dear, 
It is by her horgust command 

I wait upon you here. 

" That lady is as well 

As. can expected be ; 
And to your Grace she bid me tel 

This gracious message free. 

" That offspring of our race, 

Whom yesterday you see, 
To show our honor for your Grace, 

Prince Arthur he shall be. 

" That name it rhymes to fame ; 

All Europe knows the sound : 
And I couldn't find a better name 

If you'd give me twenty pound. 

" King Arthur had his knights 

That girt his table round, 
But you have won a hundred fights, 

Will match 'em, I'll be bound. 

" You fought with Bonypart, 

And likewise Tippoo Saib ; 
I name you then with all my heart 

The Godsire of this babe." 

That Prince his leave was took, 

His hinterview was done. 
So let us give the good old Duke 

Good luck of his god-son, 

And wish him years of joy 
In this our time of vSchism, 



1 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

And hope he'll hear the royal boy 
His little catechism. 

And my pooty little Prince 
That's come our arts to cheer. 

Let me my loyal powers ewince 
A welcomin of you ere. 

And the Poit-Laureat's crownd, 

I think, in some respex, 
Egstremely shootable might be found 

For honest Pleaseman X. 



THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS. 

Galliant gents and lovely ladies, 

List a tail vich late befel, 
Vich I heard it, bein on duty, 

At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell. 

Praps you know the Fondling Chapel, 
Vere the little children sings : 

(Lor ! I likes to hear on Sundies 
Them there pooty little things !) 

In this street there lived a housemaid, 
If you parti cklarly ask me where — 

Vy, it vas at four-and-tventy 

Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square. 

Vich her name was Eliza Davis, 
And she went to fetch the beer : 

In the street she met a party 

As was quite surprized to sec her. 



THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS. 199 

Vich he vas a British Sailor, 

For to judge him by his look : 
Tarry jacket, canvas trowsies, 

lla-la Mr. T. P. Cooke. 

Presently this Mann accostes 

Of this hinnocent young gal— 
" Pray," saysee, " excuse my freedom, 

You're so like my Sister Sal ! 

'* You're so like my Sister Sally, 
Both in valk and face and size, 

Miss, that— dang my old lee scuppers, 
It brings tears into my heyes ! 

" I'm a mate on board a wessel, 

I'm a sailor bold and true ; 
Shiver up my poor old timbers, 

Let me be a mate for you ! 

" What's your name, my beauty, tell me ;" 
And she faintly hansers, " Lore, 

Sir, my name's Eliza Davis, 
And I live at tventy-four." 

ilofttimes came this British seaman, 

l^his deluded gal to meet ; 
And at tventy-four was welcome, 

Tventy-four in Guilford Street. 

And Eliza told her Master 

(Kinder they than Misuses are), 

How in marridge he had ast her, 
Like a galliant British Tar. 

And he brought his landlady vith him, 
(Vicli was all his hartful plan), 



200 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

And she told how Charley Thompson 
Reely vas a good young man : 

And how she herself had lived in 

Many years of union sweet 
Vith a gent she met promiskous, 

Valkin in the public street. 

And Eliza listened to them. 

And she thought that soon their bands 
Vould be published at the Fondlin, 

Hand the clergyman jine their ands. 

And he ast about the lodgers, 

(Vich her master let some rooms), 

Likevise vere they kep their things, and 
Vere her master kep his spoons. 

Hand this vicked Charley Thompson 
Came on Sundy veek to see her ; 

And he sent Eliza Davis 

Hout to fetch a pint of beer. 

Hand while pore Eliza vent to 
P^tch the beer, dewoid of sin, 

This etrocious Charley Thompson 
Let his wile accomplish hin. 

To the lodgers, their apartments, 
This abandingd female goes, 

Prigs their shirts and umberellas ; 

Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes. 

Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson, 
Lest his wictim should escape, 

Hocust her vith rum and vater. 
Like a fiend m huming shape. 



THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DA VIS. 20 1 

But a hi was fixed upon 'em 

Vich these raskles little sore ; 
Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord 

Of the house at tventy-four. 

He was valkin in his garden, 

Just afore he vent to sup ; 
And on looking up he sor the 

Lodgers' vinders lighted up. 

Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled ; 

Something's going wrong, he said ; 
And he caught the vicked voman 

Underneath the lodger's bed. 

And he called a brother Pleaseman, 

Vich was passing on his beat, 
Like a true and galliant feller. 

Hup and down in Guilford Street. 

And that Pleaseman able-bodied 

Took this voman to the cell ; 
To the cell vere she was quodded, 

In the Close of Clerkenwell. 

And though vicked Charley Thompson 

Boulted like a miscrant base, 
Presently another Pleaseman 

Took him to the self-same place. 

And this precious pair of raskles 
Tuesday last came up for doom ; 

By the beak they was committed, 
Vich his name was Mr. Combe. 

Has for poor Eliza Davis, 
Simple gurl of tventy-four, 



202 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X, 

She, I ope, vill never listen 
In the streets to sailors moar. 

But if she must ave a sweet-art, 
(Vich most every gurl expex,) 

Let her take a jolly pleaseman ; 
Vich his name peraps is — X. 



DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. 

SrECiAL Jurymen of England ! who admire your 

country's laws, 
And proclaim a British Jury worthy of the realm's 

applause ; 
Gayly compliment each other at the issue of a 

cause 
Which was tried at Guildford 'sizes this day week 

as ever was. 

Unto that august tribunal comes a gentleman in 
grief, 

(Special was the British Jury, and the Judge, the 
Baron Chief,) 

Comes a British man and husband — asking of the 
law relief. 

For his wife was stolen from him — he'd have ven- 
geance on the thief. 

Yes, his wife, the blessed treasure with the which 

his life was crowned, 
Wickedly was ravished from him by a hypocrite 

profound. 
And he comes before twelve Britons, men for 

sense and truth renowned, 



DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. 203 

To award him for his damage twenty hundred 
sterling pound. 

He by counsel and attorney there at Guildford does 

appear, 
Asking damage of the villian who seduced his lady 

dear : 
But I can't help asking, though the lady's guilt 

was all too clear. 
And though guilty the defendant, wasn't the 

plaintiff rather queer ? 

First the lady's mother spoke, and said she'd seen 

her daughter cry 
But a fortnight after marriage : early times for 

piping eye. 
Six months after, things were worse, and the 

piping eye was black. 
And this gallant British husband caned his wife 

upon the back. 

Three months after they were married, husband 

pushed her to the door, 
Told her to be off and leave him, for he wanted 

her no more, 
As she would not go, why he went : thrice he left 

his lady dear ; 
Left her too without a penny, for more than a 

quarter of a year. 

Mrs. Frances Duncan knew the parties very well 

indeed. 
She had seen him pull his lady's nose and make 

her lip to bleed ; 
If he chanced to sit at home not a single word he 

said ■• 
Once she saw him throw the cover of a dish at his 

lady's head. 



204 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

Sarah Green, another witness, clear did to the 

jury note 
How she saw this honest fellow seize his lady by 

the throat, 
How he cursed her and abused her, beating her 

into a fit. 
Till the pitying next-door neighbors crossed the 

wall and witnessed it. 

Next door to this injured Briton Mr. Owers a 
butcher dwelt ; 

Mrs. Ower's foolish heart toward this erring 
dame did melt ; 

(Not that she had erred as yet, crime was not de- 
veloped in her), 

But being left without a penny, Mrs. Owers sup- 
plied her dinner — 

God be merciful to Mrs. Owers, who was merciful 
to this sinner ! 

Caroline Naylor was their servant, said they led a 

wretched life, 
Saw this most distinguished Briton fling a teacup 

at his wife ; 
He went out to balls and pleasures, and never 

once, in ten months* space, 
Sat with his wife or spoke her kindly. This was 

the defendant's case. 

Pollock, C. B., charged the Jury ; said the wom- 
an's guilt was clear ; 

That was not the point, however, which the Jury 
came to hear ; 

But the damage to determine which, as it should 
true appear. 

This most tender-hearted husband, who so used 
his ladv dear — • 



DAMAGES, TWO HUNDRED POUNDS. 205 

Beat her, kicked her, caned her, cursed her, left 
her starving, year by year. 

Flung- her from him, parted from her, wrung her 
neck, and boxed her ear — 

What the reasonable damage this afflicted man 
could claim 

By the loss of the afifections of this guilty grace- 
less dame ? 

Then the honest British Twelve, to each other 
turning round, 

Laid their clever heads together with a wisdom 
most profound : 

And toward his Lordship looking, spoke the fore- 
man wise and sound ; — 

" My Lord, we find for this here plaintiff, 
damages two hundred pound." 

So, God bless the Special Jury ! pride and joy of 
English grovmd. 

And the happy land of England, where true jus- 
tice does abound ! 

British jurymen and husbands, let us hail this 
verdict proper : 

If a British wife offends you, Britons, you've a 
right to whop her. 

Though you promised to protect her, though you 

promised to defend her. 
You are welcome to neglect her : to the devil you 

may send her : 
You may strike her, curse, abuse her ; so declares 

our law renowned ; 
And if after this you lose her, — why, you're paid 

two hundred pound. 



2o6 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 



THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. 

There's in the Vest a city pleasant 
To vich King- Bladud gev his name, 

And in that city there's a Crescent 
Vere dwelt a noble knight of fame. 

Although that gallant knight is oldish, 
Although Sir John as grey, grey air, 

H age has not made his busum coldish, 
His Art still beats tewodds the Fair ! 

'Twas two years sins, this knight so splendid, 
Peraps fateagued with Bath's routines. 

To Paris towne his phootsteps bended 
In sutch of gayer folks and scans. 

His and was free, his means was easy, 

A nobler, finer gent than he 
Ne'er drove about the Shons-Eleesy, 

Or paced the Roo de Rivolee. 

A brougham and pair Sir John prowided, 
In which abroad he loved to ride ; 

But ar ! he most of all enjyed it. 

When some one helse was sittin' inside ! 

That " some one helse" a lovely dame was. 
Dear ladies, you will heasy tell — 

Countess Grabrowski her sweet name was, 
A noble title, ard to spell. 

This faymus Countess ad a daughter 

Of lovely form and tender art ; 
A nobleman in marridge sought her, 

By name the Baron of Saint Bart. 



THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. 207 

Their pashn touched the noble Sir John, 

It was so pewer and profound ; 
Ladv Grabrowski he did urge on 

With Hyming's wreeth their loves to crownd. 

- O come to Bath, to Lansdowne Crescent," 
■ Says kind Sir John, " and live %vith me ; 

The living there's uncommon pleasant— 
I'm sure you'll find the hair agree. 

- O come to Bath, my fair Grabrowski, 
And bring your charming girl sezee ; 

- The Barring here shall have the ouse-key. 
Vith breakfast, dinner, lunch, and tea. 

- And when they've passed an appy winter, 
Their opes and loves no more we 11 bar , 

The marridge-vow they'll enter inter. 
And I at church will be their 1 ar. 

To Bath they went to Lansdowne Crescent, 
Where good Sir John he did provide 

No end of teas and balls incessant 
And hosses both to drive and ride. 

He was so Ospitably busy 

When Miss was late, he d make so bold 
Upstairs to call out, " Missy, Missy 

Come down, the coffy's getting cold ! 

But O ! 'tis sadd to think such bounties 

Should meet with such return as this , 
O Barring of Saint Bart, O Countess 

Grabrowski, and O cruel Miss ! 
He married you at Bath's fair Habby, 

Saint Bart he treated like a son— 
And wasn't it uncommon shabby 

To do what you have went and done 



«o8 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

My trembling And amost refewses 

To write the charge which Sir John swore, 

Of which the Countess he ecuses, 
Her daughter and her son-in-lore. 

My Mews quite blushes as she sings of 
The fatle charge which now I quote : 

He says Miss took his two best rings off, 
And pawned 'em for a tenpun note. 

" Is this the child of honest parince, 
To make away with folks' best things ? 

Is this, pray, like the wives of Barrins, 
To go and prig a gentleman's rings ? " 

Thus thought Sir John, by anger wrought on, 
And to rewengc his injured cause. 

He brought them hup to Mr. Broughton, 
Last Vensday veek as ever waws. 

If guiltless, how she have been slandered ! 

If guilty, wengeance will not fail : 
Meanwhile the lady is remanded 

And gcv three hundred pouns in bail. 



JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS. 

A NEW PALLICE COURT CHAUNT. 

One sees in Viteall Yard, 
Vere pleacemen do resort, 

A wenerable hinstitute, 

'Tis called the Pallis Court. 

A gent as got his i on it, 

1 think 'twill make some sport. 



JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS. 209 

The natur of this Court 

My hindignation riles : 
A few fat legal spiders 

Here set & spin their viles ; 
To rob the town theyr privlege is, 

In a hayrea of twelve miles. 

The Judge of this year Court 

Is a mellitary beak, 
He knows no more of Lor 

Than praps he does of Greek, 
And prowides hisself a deputy 

Because he cannot speak. 

Four counsel in this Court — 

Misnamed of Justice — sits ; 
These lawyers owes their places to 

There money, not their wits ; 
And there's six attornies under themj 

As here their living gits. 

These lawyers, six and four, 

Was a living at their ease, 
A sendin of their writs abowt, 

And droring in the fees. 
When their erose a cirkimstance 

As is like to make a breeze. 

It now is some monce since 

A gent both good and trew 
Possest an ansum oss vith vich 

He didn know what to do ; 
Peraps he did not like the oss, 

Peraps he was a scru. 

This gentleman his oss 
At Tattersall's did lodge ; 



2IO BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

There came a wulgar oss-dealer. 
This gentleman's name did fodge, 

And took the oss from Tattersall's : 
Wasn that a artful dodge ? 

One day this gentleman's groom 

This willain did spy out, 
A mounted on this oss 

A ridin him about ; 
" Get out of that there oss, you rogue," 

Speaks up the groom so stout. 

The thief was cruel wex'd 
To find himself so pinn'd ; 

The oss began to whinny, 

The honest groom he grinn'd ; 

And the raskle thief got off the oss 
And cut avay like vind. 

And phansy with what joy 

The master did regard 
His dearly bluvd lost oss again 

Trot in the stable yard ! 

Who was this master good 

Of whomb I makes these rhymes ? 

His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire ■ 
And if /'d committed crimes. 

Good Lord ! I wouldn't ave that mann 
Attack me in the Times I 

Now shortly after the groomb 
His master's oss did take up, 

There came a livery-man 
This gentleman to wake up ; 

And he handed in a little bill. 
Which hangered Mr. Jacob. 



JACOB HOMNIUM'S HOSS. 211 

For two pound seventeen 

This livery-man epiied, 
For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss, 

Which the thief had took to ride. 
" Do you see any think green in me ?" 

Mr. Jacob Homnium cried. 

' ' Because a raskle chews 

My oss away to robb, 
And goes tick at your Mews 

For seven-and-fifty bobb, 
Shall / be call'd to pay ?— It is 

A iniquitious Jobb." 

Thus Mr. Jacob cut 

The conwasation short : 
The livery-man went ome, 

Detummingd to ave sport, 
And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire, 

Into the Pallis Court. 

Pore Jacob went to Court, 

A Counsel for to fix, 
And choose a barrister out of the four, 

An attorney of the six : 
And there he sor these men of Lor, 

And watch'd 'em at their tricks. 

The dreadful day of trile 

In the pallis Court did come ; 
The lawyers said their say, 

The judge look'd wery glum, 
And then the British Jury cast 

Pore Jacob Hom-ni-um. 

O a weary day was that 
For Jacob to go through ; 



212 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

The debt was two seventeen 

(Which he no mor owed than you), 

And then there was the plaintives costs, 
Eleven pound six and two. 

And then there was his own, 
Wliich the hiwyers they did lix 

At a wery moderit figgar 
Of ten pound one and six. 

Now Evins bless the PalHs Court, 
And all its bold ver-dicks ! 

I cannot settingly tell 

If Jacob swaw and cust. 
At aving for to pay this sumb ; 

But 1 should think he must. 
And av drawn a cheque for £i^ t\s. 8d, 

With most igstrerae disgust. 

O Pallis Court, you move 

My pitty most profound. 
A most cmusing sport 

You thought it I'll be bound. 
To saddle hup a three-pound debt 

With two and-twenty pound. 

Good sport it is to you 

To grind the honest pore, 
To pay their just or unjust debts 

With eight hundred per cent for Lor ; 
Make haste and get your costes in, 

They will not last much mor ! 

Come down from that tribewn. 
Thou shameless and Unjust ; 

Thou Swindle, picking pockets in 
The name of Truth august : 



THE SPECULATORS. 213 

Come down, thou hoary Blasphemy, 
For die thou shalt and must. 

And go it, Jacob Homnium, 

And ply your iron pen, 
And rise up, Sir John Jervis, 

And shut me up that den ; 
That sty for fattening lawyers m 

On the bones of honest men. 

Pleaceman X. 



THE SPECULATORS. 

The night was stormy and dark. The town was 
shut up in sleep: Only those were abroad who 
were out on a lark. Or those who'd no beds to 
keep. 

I pass'd through the lonely street. The wind 
did sing and blow ; I could hear the policeman s 
feet Clapping to and fro. 

There stood a potato-man In the midst of all 
the wet ; He stood with his 'tato-can in tne 
lonely Haymarket. 

Two gents of dismal mien. And dank and 
greasy rags. Came out of a shop for gm, Swag- 
gering over the flags : 

Swaggering over the stones. These shabby 
bucks did walk ; And I went and followed those 
seedy ones. And listened to their talk. 



214 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

Was I sober or awake ? Could I believe my 
ears ? Those dismal beggars spake Of nothing 
but railroad shares. 

I wondered more and more ; Says one — 
" Good friend of mine, How many shares have 
you wrote for, In the Diddlesex Junction line ?" 

" I wrote for twenty," says Jim, "But they 
wouldn't give me one ;" His comrade straight 
rebuked him For the folly he had done : 

" O Jim, you are unawares Of the ways of 
this bad town ; / always write for five hvmdred 
shares, And then they put mc down." 

" And yet you got no shares," Says Jim, " for 
all your boast;" "I would have wrote," says 
Jack, "but where Was the penny to pay the 
post ?" 

" I lost, for I couldn't pay That first instal- 
ment up ; But here's 'taters smoking hot — I say, 
Let's stop, my boy, and sup." 

And at this simple feast The while they did 
regale, I drew each ragged capitalist Down on 
my left thumb-nail. 

Their talk did me perplex. All night I tumbled 
and tost. And thought of railroad specs. And 
how money was won and lost. 

" Bless railroads everywhere," I said, " and 
the world's advance ; Bless every railroad share 
In Italy, Ireland, France ; For never a beggar 
need now despair, And every rogue has a 
chance." 



A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD. 215 
A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD 

OF THE 

PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY TO TAKE THE 

POPE'S LIFE. 

(by a gentleman who has been on the spot.) 

Come all ye Christian people, unto my tale give 

ear, 
'Tis about a base consperracy, as quickly shall 

appear ; 
'Twill make your hair to bristle up, and your eyes 

to start and glow, 
When of this dread consperracy you honest folks 

shall know. 

The news of this consperracy and villianous 

attempt, 
I read it in a newspaper, from Italy it was sent : 
It was sent from lovely Italy, where the olives 

they do grow. 
And our Holy Father lives, yes, yes, while his 

name it is No no. 

And 'tis there our English noblemen goes that is 

Puseyites no longer. 
Because they finds the ancient faith both better 

is and stronger. 
And 'tis there I knelt beside my lord when he 

kiss'd the Pope his toe. 
And hung his neck with chains at Saint Peter's 

Vinculo, 

And 'tis there the splendid churches is, and the 

fountains playing grand. 
And the palace of Prince Torlonia, likewise 

the Vatican : 



2l6 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

And there's the stairs where the bagpipe-men and 

the piffararys blow. 
And it's there I drove my lady and lord in the 

Park of Pincio. 

And 'tis there our splendid churches is in all their 

pride and glory. 
Saint Peter's famous Basilisk and Saint Mary's 

Maggiory ; 
And them benighted Prodestants, on Sunday they 

must go 
Outside the town to the preaching-shop by the 

gate of Popolo. 

Now in this town of famous Room, as I dessay 

you have heard, 
There is scarcely any gentleman as hasn't got a 

beard. 
And ever since the world began it was ordained so, 
That there should always barbers be wheresumever 

beards do grow. 

And as it always has been so since the world it 

did begin, 
The Pope, our Holy Potentate, has a beard upon 

his chin ; 
And every morning regular when cocks begin to 

crow. 
There comes a certing party to wait on Pope Pio. 

There comes a certing gintleman with razicr, soap, 

and lather, 
A shaving most respectfully the Pope, our Holy 

Father. 
And now the dread consperracy I'll quickly to you 

show, 
Which them sanguinary Prodestants did form 

against Nunc. 



A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD. 217 

Them sanguinary Prodestants, which I abore and 

hate, 
A.ssembled in the preaching-shop by the Flaminian 

gate; 
And they took counsel with their selves to deal a 

deadly blow 
Against our gentle Father, the Holy Pope Vio. 

Exhibiting a wickedness which I never heerd or 

read of ; 
What do you think them Prodestants wished ? to 

cut the good Pope's head off ! 
And to the kind Pope's Air-dresser the Prodestant 

Clark did go, 
And proposed him to decapitate the innocent 

PlO. 

" What hevercan be easier," said this Clerk — this 

Man of Sin, 
" When you are called to hoperate on His Iloli- 

ness's chin. 
Than just to give the razier a little slip — just so ?— 
And there's an end, dear barber, of innocent Pio !" 

This wicked conversation it chanced was overerd 
By an Italian lady ; she heard it every word : 
Which by birth she was a Marchioness, in service 

forced to go 
With the parson of the preaching-shop at the gate 

of Popolo, 

When the lady heard the news, as duty did obleege. 
As fast as her legs could cany her she ran to the 

Poleege. 
" O Polegia," says she (for they pronounts it so), 
" They're going for to massvkcr our Holy P<3FE 

Pio. 



215 BALLADS OP POLICEMAN X. 

'* The ebomminable Englishmen, the Parsing and 

his Clark, 
His Holiness's Air-dresser devised it in the dark ! 
And I would recommend you in prison for to 

throw 
These villians would esassinate the Holy Pope 

Pio! 

" And for saving of His Holiness and his trebble 

crownd 
1 humbly hope your Worships will give me a 

few pound ; 
r>ecause I was a Marchioness many years ago, 
lief ore I came to service at the gate of Popolo." 

That sackreligious Air-dresser, the Parson and 

his man, 
Wouldn't though ask'd continyally, own their 

wicked plan — 
And so the kind Authoraties let those villians go 
That was plotting of the murder of the good Pio 

NONO. 

Now isn't this safishnt proof, ye gentlemen at 

home, 
How wicked is them Prodestants, and how good 

our Pope at Rome ; 
So let us drink confusion to Lord John and 

Lord Minto, 
And a health unto His Eminence, and good Poi 

NONO. 



THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH. 219 



THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE 
FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH. 

Come all ye Christian people, and listen to my 

tail, 
It is all about a doctor was travelling by the rail, 
By the Heastern Counties' Railway (vich the 

shares I don't desire), 
From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did 

not transpire. 

A travelling from Bury this Doctor was employed 
With a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name 

was Captain Loyd, 
And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next 

beyond Colchest- 
er, a lady entered in to them most elegantly 

dressed. 

She entered into the Carriage all with a tottering 

step. 
And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep ; 
The gentlemen received her with kindness and 

siwillaty, 
Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty. 

She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said ; 
Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd 

instead. 
Better to travel by secknd class, than sit alone in 

the fust, 
And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she 

nust. 

A seein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail. 
To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail ; 



2 20 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

Saysee you look unwell, Ma'am, I'll elp you if I 

can, 
And you may tell your case to me, for I'm a 

meddicle man. 

" Thank you, Sir," the lady said, " I only look so 

pale, 
Because I ain't accustora'd to travelling on the 

Rale ; 
I shall be better presnly, when I've ad some 

rest :" 
And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her 

breast. 

vSo in conwersation the journey they beguiled, 
Capting Loyd and the meddicle man, and the lady 

and the child. 
Till the warious stations along the line was passed, 
For even the Heastern Counties' trains must come 

in at last. 

When at Shoreditch tumminus at lenth stopped 

the train. 
This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid 

again. 
*' Thank you, Sir," the lady said, " for your kyind- 

ness dear ; 
My carridge and my osses isprobibbly come here. 

" Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and 
see ?" 

The Doctor was a famly man : " That I will," 
says he. 

Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently, 

Vich was sucking his little fist, sleeping inno- 
cently. 



THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH. 22 1 

With a sigh from her art, as though she would 

have bust it, 
Then she gave the Doctor the child — wery kind 

he nust it : 
Hup then the lady jumped hoff the bench she sat 

from, 
Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along 

the platform. 

V'^ile hall the other passengers vent upon their 

vays, 
The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze ; 
Some vent in a liomminibus, some vent in a 

Cabby, 
The Capting and the Doctor vaited vith the babby. 

There they sat looking queer, for an hour or 

more, 
But their fellef passinger neather on 'em sore : 
Never, never back again did that lady come 
To that pooty sleeping Hinfnt a suckin of his 

Thum ! 

What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus. 
When the darling Baby woke, cryin for its nuss ? 
Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was 

both kind and mild, 
And igsplained to her the circumstance of this 

year little child. 

That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap. 
And made it very comfortable by giving it some 

pap ; 
And when she took its close off, what d'you think 

she found ? 
A couple of ten pun notes sewn up, in its little 

gownd ! 



222 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

Also in its little close was a note which did conwey. 
That this little baby's parents lived in a hand- 
some way 
And for its Ileaducation they reglarly would pay, 
And sirtingly like gentlefolks would claim the 

child one day, 
If the Christian people who'd charge of it would 

say, 
Per adwertisement in The Times ^ where the baby 
lay. 

Pity of this bayby many people took, 

It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look ; 

And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I 

could see 
Any kind lady as would do as much for me ; 

And I wish with all my art, some night in my 

night gownd, 
I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty 

pound) — 
There came a lady forrard, that most honorable 

did say, 
She'd adopt this little baby, which her parents 

cast away. 

While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair, 
Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party 

there, 
Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar's desire, 
To send the little Infant back to Devonshire. 

Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man, 
Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran ; 
Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable 

beak, 
That takes his seat in Worship Street four times 

a week. 



THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH. 223 

"O Justice!" says the Doctor, " instrugt me 

what to do. 
I've come up from the country, to throw myself 

on you ; 
My patients have no doctor to tend them in their 

ills, . , „ 

(There they are in Suffolk without their draff ts 

and pills !) 

"I've come up from the country, to know how 

I'll dispose 
Of this pore little baby, and the twenty pun note. 

and the close, 
And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if 

you please, . 

And my patients wants their Doctor, and their 

Doctor wants his feez." 

Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk, 
" This year application does me much perplesk ; 
What I do ad wise you, is to leave this babby 
In the Parish where it was left by its mother 
shabby." 

The Doctor from his Worship sadly did depart— 
He might have left the baby, but he hadn't got 

the heart 
To go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the laws 

allows. 
To the tender mussies of the Union House. 

Mother, who left this little one on a stranger's 

knee, 
Think how cruel you have been, and how good 

was he ! 
Think if you've been guilty, innocent was she : 
And do not take unkindly this little word of me : 
Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be ! 



2 24 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 



THE ORGAN-BOY'S APPEAL. 

" Westminster Police Court. — Policeman X broiij;lit 
a paper of doggerel verses to the Magistrate, which had 
been thrust into his hand^, X said, by an ItaHan boy, who 
ran away immediately afterward. 

•'The Magistrath, after perusine the lines, looked 
hard at X, and said he did not think tliey were wiitieu by 
an Italian. 

" X, blushing, said he thought the paper read in 
Court last week, and which frightened so the old gentlt*- 
man to whom it was addressed, was also not of Italian 
origin." 

O SiGNOR Broderip, vou are a wickid ole man, 
You wexis us little horgin-boys whenever you 

can : 
How dare you talk of Justice, and go for to seek 
To pussicute us horgin-boys, you senguinary 

Beek? 

Though you set in Vestminster surrounded by 

your crushers, 
Harrogint and habsolute like the Hortacrat of 

hall the Rushers, 
Yet there is a better vurld I'd have you for to 

know. 
Likewise a place vere the henimies of horgin-boys 

will go. 

O you vickid Herod without any pity ! 
London vithout horgin-boys vood be a dismal city. 
Sweet Saint Cicily who first taught horgin- 

pipes to blow 
Soften the heart of this Magistrit that haggery- 

wates us so ! 

Good Italian gentlemen, fatherly and kind. 
Brings us over to London here our horgins for to 
grind ; 



THE ORGAN-BOY'S APPEAL. 225 

Sends us out vith little vitc mice and guinea-pigs 

also 
A popping of the Veasel and a Jumpin of Jim 

Crow. 

And as us young horgin-boys is grateful in our 

turn 
We gives to these kind gentlemen hall the money 

we earn, 
Because that they vood vop us as wery wel we 

know 
Unless we brought our burnings back to them a*, 

loves us so. 

O Mr. Broderip ! wery much I'm surprise, 
Ven you take your valks abroad where can be 

your eyes? 
If a Beak had a heart then you'd compryend 
Us pore little horgin-boys was the poor man's 

friend. 

Don't you see the shildren in the droring-rooma 
Clapping of their little ands when they year oui 

toons ? 
On their mothers' bussums don't you see the 

babbies crow 
And down to us dear horgin-boys lots of apencc 

throw ? 

Don't you see the ousemaids (pooty Follies and 

Maries), 
Ven ve bring our urdigurdis, smiling from the 

hairies ? 
Then they come out vith a slice o' cole puddn or 

a bit o' bacon or so 
And give it us young horgin-boys for lunch afore 

we go. 



2 26 BALLADS OF POLICEMAN X. 

Have you ever seen the Hirish children sport 
When our velcome music-box brings sunshine in 

the Court ? 
To these little paupers who can never pay 
Surely all good horgin-boys, for God's love, will 

play. 

Has for those proud gentlemen, like a serting 

B— k 
(Vich I von't be pussonal and therefore vil not 

speak), 
That flings their parler-vinders hup ven ve begin 

to play 
And cusses us and swears at us in such a wiolent 

way, 

Instedd of their abewsing and calling hout Poleece 
Let em send out John to us vith sixpence or a 

shillin apiece. 
Then like good young horgin-boys avay from 

there we'll go. 
Blessing sweet Saint Cicily that taught our 

pipes to blow. 

FINIS. 



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